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FATHER  SERGIUS 


WORKS  OF  LEO  TOLSTOY 

Published  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 

Resurrection,  a  Novel 

Hadji  Murad,  a  Novel 

Father  Sergius  and  Other  Stories 

The  Forged  Coupon  and  Other  Stories 

The  Man  Who  Was  Dead 

(The  Living  Corpse)  Dramas 

The  Light  That  Shines  in  Darkness,  a  Drama 


FATHER  SERGIUS 

And  Other  Stories 

BY 

LEO  TOLSTOY 

Edited  by  Dr.  Hagberg  Wright 

Frontispiece 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


PRESERVATION 
DOPY  ADDED 
DRIGINAL  TO  BE 
RETAINED 


^  iJ  5  !>,: 


Copyright,  1912 

By  dodd,  mead  and  company 


^ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Father  Sergius ^     .      9 

The  Wisdom  of  Children 97 

The  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Hermit,  Fedor 

Kusmich 189 

Memoirs  of  a  Lunatic 227 

Two  Wayfarers 253 

Khodinka:  an  incident  of  the  Coronation  of 

Nicholas  II  .....*>.     ^     *     .  261 

Introduction  to  "  A  Mother  " 279 

The  Memoirs  of  A  Mother  <•: 293 

Father  Vasily:  A  Fragment 307 


235403 


FATHER  SERGIUS 


FATHER    SERGIUS 


There  happened  in  St.  Petersburg  during  the 
forties  an  event  which  startled  society. 

A  handsome  youth,  a  prince,  an  officer  in  the 
Cuirassiers  for  whom  every  one  had  predicted  the 
rank  of  aide-de-camp  and  a  brilliant  career  at- 
tached to  the  person  of  Emperor  Nicholas  I., 
quitted  the  service.  He  broke  with  his  beautiful 
■fiancee,  a  lady-In-waiting,  and  a  favourite  of  the 
empress,  just  a  fortnight  before  the  wedding-day, 
and  giving  his  small  estate  to  his  sister,  retired  to 
a  monastery  to  become  a  monk. 

To  those  who  were  Ignorant  of  the  hidden 
motives,  this  was  an  extraordinary  and  unaccount- 
able step ;  but  as  regards  Prince  Stephen  Kasatsky 
himself,  it  was  such  a  natural  move  that  he  could 
not  conceive  an  alternative. 

His  father,  a  retired  colonel  of  the  Guards, 
died  when  the  son  was  twelve.  Although  it  was 
hard  for  his  mother  to  let  him  go  from  her,  she 
would  not  act  in  defiance  of  the  wishes  of  her  late 


!io  FATHER  SERGIUS 

husband,  who  had  expressed  the  desire  that  in  the 
event  of  his  death  the  boy  should  be  sent  away 
and  educated  as  a  cadet.  So  she  secured  his  ad- 
mission to  the  corps. 

The  widow  herself  with  her  daughter  Varvara 
moved  to  St.  Petersburg  In  order  to  be  In  the 
same  town  with  the  boy  and  to  take  him  home 
for  his  holidays.  He  showed  brilliant  capacity 
and  extraordinary  ambition,  and  came  out  first  In 
military  drill.  In  riding,  and  In  his  studies, — 
mathematics  especially  —  for  which  he  had  a  par- 
ticular liking. 

In  spite  of  his  abnormal  height  he  was  a  hand- 
some, graceful  lad,  and  had  It  not  been  for  his 
violent  temper  he  would  have  been  an  altogether 
exemplary  cadet.  He  never  drank  or  Indulged 
in  any  sort  of  dissipation,  and  he  was  particu- 
larly truthful.  The  fits  of  fury  which  maddened 
him  from  time  to  time,  when  he  lost  all  control 
over  himself  and  raged  like  a  wild  animal,  were 
the  only  faults  In  his  character.  Once,  when  a 
cadet  ragged  him  because  of  his  collection  of  min- 
erals, he  almost  threw  the  boy  out  of  the  win- 
dow. On  another  occasion  he  rushed  at  an  ofli- 
cer  and  struck  him,  It  was  said,  for  having  bro- 
ken his  word  and  told  a  direct  lie. 

For  this  he  would  surely  have  been  degraded 
to  the  rank  of  a  common  soldier,  if  it  had  not 


FATHER  SERGIUS  ii! 

been  for  the  head  of  the  school,  who  hushed  up 
the  matter  and  dismissed  the  officer. 

At  eighteen  Kasatsky  left  with  the  rank  of  lieu- 
tenant and  entered  an  aristocratic  Guard  regiment. 
The  Emperor  Nicholas  had  known  him  while  he 
was  in  the  cadet  corps,  and  had  shown  him  favour 
while  in  the  regiment.  It  was  on  this  account 
that  people  prophesied  that  he  would  become  an 
aide-de-camp.  Kasatsky  desired  it  greatly,  al- 
though less  from  ambition  than  from  passionate 
love  for  the  emperor  whom  he  had  cherished  since 
his  cadet  days.  Each  time  the  emperor  visited 
the  school  —  and  he  visited  it  very  often  —  as 
Kasatsky  saw  the  tall  figure,  the  broad  chest,  the 
aquiline  nose  above  the  moustache,  and  the  close- 
cropped  side  whiskers,  the  military  uniform,  and 
the  brisk,  firm  step,  and  heard  him  greeting  the 
cadets  in  his  strident  voice,  he  experienced  the  mo- 
mentary ecstasy  of  one  who  sees  his  well-beloved. 
But  his  passionate  adoration  of  the  emperor  was 
even  more  intense.  He  desired  to  give  up  some- 
thing, everything,  even  himself,  to  show  his  in- 
finite devotion.  The  Emperor  Nicholas  knew 
that  he  inspired  such  admiration,  and  deliberately 
provoked  it.  He  played  with  the  cadets,  made 
them  surround  him,  and  treated  them  sometimes 
with  childish  simplicity,  sometimes  as  a  friend, 
and  then  again  with  an  air  of  solemn  grandeur. 


12  FATHER  SERGIUS 

After  the  incident  with  the  officer,  the  emperor, 
who  did  not  allude  to  It,  waved  Kasatsky  theat- 
rically aside  when  the  latter  approached  him. 
Then,  when  he  was  leaving,  he  frowned  and  shook 
his  finger  at  the  boy,  saying,  "Be  assured  that 
everything  is  known  to  me;  but  there  are  things 
I  do  not  wish  to  know.  Nevertheless  they  are 
herCy*  and  he  pointed  to  his  heart. 

When  the  cadets  were  formally  received  by  the 
emperor  on  leaving  the  school,  he  did  not  remind 
Kasatsky  of  his  insubordination,  but  told  them  all, 
as  was  his  custom,  that  they  could  turn  to  him  In 
need,  that  they  were  to  serve  him  and  their  coun- 
try with  loyalty,  and  that  he  would  ever  remain 
their  best  friend.  All  were  touched  —  as  usual 
' — and  Kasatsky,  remembering  the  past,  shed 
tears  and  made  a  vow  to  serve  his  beloved  Tsar 
with  all  his  might. 

When  Kasatsky  entered  the  regiment,  his 
mother  and  sister  left  St.  Petersburg,  going  first 
to  Moscow  and  then  to  their  estate  In  the  coun- 
try. Kasatsky  gave  half  his  fortune  to  his  sister. 
What  remained  was  quite  sufficient  to  support  him 
in  the  expensive  regiment  which  he  had  joined. 

Viewed  from  outside,  Kasatsky  seemed  like  an 
ordinary  brilliant  young  officer  of  the  Guards 
making  a  career  for  himself.  But  within  his 
soul  there  were  Intense  and  complex  strivings. 


\ 


FATHER  SERGIUS  13 

Although  this  striving,  which  had  been  going  on 
ever  since  his  childhood,  seemed  to  vary  in  its  na- 
ture, it  was  essentially  one  and  the  same,  and  had 
for  its  object  that  absolute  perfection  in  every  un- 
dertaking which  would  give  him  the  applause  and 
admiration  of  the  world.  Whatever  it  might  be, 
accomplishments  or  learning,  he  worked  to  merit 
praise,  and  to  stand  as  an  example  to  the  rest. 
Mastering  one  subject  he  took  up  another,  and  so 
obtained  first  place  in  his  studies.  For  example, 
while  he  was  still  in  the  corps,  conscious  of  a  lack 
of  fluency  in  his  French,  he  contrived  to  master 
the  language  so  that  he  knew  it  like  his  own. 
Then  again,  when  he  became  interested  in  chess 
while  still  in  the  corps,  he  worked  at  the  game  till 
he  acquired  proficiency. 

Apart  from  the  chief  end  of  life,  which  was  in 
his  eyes  the  service  of  the  Tsar  and  his  country,  he 
had  always  some  self-appointed  aim,  and,  how- 
ever unimportant  it  might  be,  he  pursued  this  with 
his  whole  soul,  and  lived  for  it  until  it  was  ac- 
complished. But  the  moment  it  was  attained  an- 
other arose  in  its  place.  This  passion  for  distin- 
guishing himself  and  for  pursuing  one  object  in 
order  to  distinguish  himself  filled  his  life.  So  it 
was  that  after  entering  upon  his  career  he  set  him- 
self to  acquire  the  utmost  perfection  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  service,  and,  except  for  his  uncon- 


14  FATHER  SERGIUS 

trollable  temper,  which  was  sometimes  the  occa- 
sion of  actions  that  were  inimical  to  his  success, 
he  soon  became  a  model  officer. 

Once,  during  a  conversation  In  society,  he  real- 
ised the  need  of  a  more  general  education.  So 
setting  himself  to  work  to  read  books,  he  soon  at- 
tained what  he  desired.  Then  he  wanted  to  hold 
a  brilliant  position  in  aristocratic  society.  He 
learned  to  dance  beautifully,  and  was  presently 
invited  to  all  the  balls  and  parties  in  the  best  cir- 
cles. But  he  was  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  was 
■accustomed  to  being  first  in  everything,  and  in 
this  instance  he  was  very  far  from  that.  Society 
at  that  time  consisted,  as  I  suppose  It  has  done  in 
every  time  and  place,  of  four  kinds  of  people  — 
rich  people  who  are  received  at  court;  people  who 
are  not  rich,  but  are  born  and  brought  up  in  court 
circles;  rich  people  who  ape  the  court;  and  peo- 
ple, neither  rich  nor  of  the  court,  who  copy  both. 

Kasatsky  did  not  belong  to  the  first  two,  but 
was  gladly  received  in  the  last  two  sets.  On  en- 
tering society  his  first  Idea  was  that  he  must  have 
a  liaison  with  a  society  lady;  and  quite  unexpect- 
edly It  soon  came  about.  Presently,  however,  he 
realised  that  the  circle  in  which  he  moved  was  not 
the  most  exclusive,  and  that  there  were  higher 
spheres,  and  that,  notwithstanding  he  was  re- 
ceived there,  he  was  a  stranger  in  their  midst. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  15 

They  were  polite  to  him,  but  their  manner  made 
It  plain  that  they  had  their  own  intimates,  and 
that  he  was  not  one  of  them.  Kasatsky  longed 
to  be  one  of  them.  To  attain  this  end  he  must 
become  an  aide-de-camp  —  which  he  expected  to 
be  —  or  else  he  must  marry  into  the  set.  He  re- 
solved upon  this  latter  course.  His  choice  fell 
upon  a  young  girl,  a  beauty,  belonging  to  the 
court,  and  not  merely  belonging  to  the  circle  he 
wished  to  move  in,  whose  society  was  coveted  by 
the  most  distinguished  and  the  most  firmly  rooted 
in  this  circle.  This  was  the  Countess  Korotkova. 
Kasatsky  began  to  pay  court  to  her  purely  for  the 
sake  of  his  career;  she  was  uncommonly  attractive, 
and  he  very  soon  fell  In  love  with  her.  She  was 
noticeably  cool  towards  him  at  first,  and  then  sud- 
denly everything  changed.  She  treated  him  gra- 
ciously, and  her  mother  continually  invited  him 
to  the  house. 

Kasatsky  proposed,  and  was  accepted.  He 
was  rather  astonished  at  the  facility  with  which 
he  gained  his  happiness,  and  he  noticed  something 
strange  in  the  behaviour  towards  him  of  both 
mother  and  daughter.  He  was  deeply  in  love, 
and  love  had  made  him  blind,  so  he  failed  to 
realise  what  nearly  the  whole  town  knew  —  that 
the  previous  year  his  fiancee  had  been  the  favour- 
ite of  the  Emperor  Nicholas. 


i6  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Two  weeks  before  the  day  arranged  for  the 
wedding  Kasatsky  was  at  Tsarskoye  Selo,  at  the 
country  place  of  his  fiancee.  It  was  a  hot  day  In 
May.  The  lovers  had  had  a  walk  In  the  garden, 
and  were  sitting  on  a  bench  In  the  shade  of  the 
lindens.  Mary  looked  exceedingly  pretty  In  her 
white  muslin  dress.  She  seemed  the  personifica- 
tion of  love  and  Innocence  —  now  bending  her 
head,  now  gazing  at  her  handsome  young  lover, 
who  was  talking  to  her  with  great  tenderness  and 
self-restraint,  as  though  he  feared  by  look  or  ges- 
ture to  offend  her  angelic  purity.  Kasatsky  be- 
longed to  those  men  of  the  'forties,  who  do  not 
exist  nowadays,  who  deliberately,  while  condon- 
ing Impurity  in  themselves,  require  In  their  wives 
the  most  Ideal  and  seraphic  innocence.  Being 
prepared  to  find  this  purity  In  every  girl  of  their 
set,  they  behaved  accordingly.  This  theory,  In 
so  far  as  it  concerned  the  laxity  which  the  men  per- 
mitted themselves,  was  certainly  altogether  wrong 
and  harmful;  but  In  Its  relation  to  the  women  I 
think,  compared  with  the  notion  of  the  modern 
young  man  who  sees  In  every  girl  nothing  but  a 
mate  or  a  female,  there  was  much  to  be  said  for 
it.  The  girls,  perceiving  such  adoration,  en- 
deavoured with  more  or  less  success  to  be  god- 
desses. 

Kasatsky  held  the  views  of  his  time,  and  looked 


FATHER  SERGIUS  17 

with  such  eyes  upon  his  sweetheart.  That  day 
he  was  more  In  love  than  ever,  but  there  was 
nothing  sensual  In  his  feelings  towards  his 
■fiancee.  On  the  contrary  he  regarded  her  with 
the  tender  adoration  of  something  unattainable. 
He  rose  and  stood  at  his  full  height  before  her, 
leaning  with  both  hands  on  his  sabre. 

*'  Now  for  the  first  time  I  know  what  happi- 
ness Is.  And  It  Is  you  —  darling  —  who  have 
given  me  that  happiness,"  he  said,  smiling  shyly. 

He  was  still  at  that  stage  where  endearments 
are  not  yet  a  habit,  and  It  made  him  gasp  to  think 
of  using  them  to  such  an  angel. 

"It  is  you  who  have  made  me  see  myself 
clearly.  You  have  shown  me  that  I  am  better 
than  I  thought,"  he  added. 

"I  knew  It  long  ago.  That  is  what  made  me 
begin  to  love  you." 

The  nightingales  were  beginning  their  song 
somewhere  near,  and  the  young  leaves  moved  In 
the  sudden  gusts  of  wind.  He  raised  her  hand 
to  his  lips  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

She  understood  that  he  was  thanking  her  for 
having  said  that  she  loved  him.  He  took  a  few 
steps  backwards  and  forwards,  remaining  silent, 
then  approached  her  again,  and  sat  beside  her. 

"  You  know,  when  I  began  to  make  love  to 
you,   it  was   not   disinterested   on   my  part.     I 


1 8  FATHER  SERGIUS 

wanted  to  get  Into  society.  And  then,  when  I 
came  to  know  you  better,  how  little  all  that  mat- 
tered, compared  to  you  I  Are  you  angry  with  me 
for  that  ?'» 

She  did  not  answer,  but  touched  his  hand.  He 
understood  that  It  meant  "  I  am  not  angry." 

"  Well,  you  said  — "  he  stopped.  It  seemed 
too  bold  to  say  what  he  Intended.  "  You  said 
^-  that  you  —  began  to  love  me  —  forgive  me 
! — I  quite  believe  It- — but  there  Is  something 
that  troubles  you  and  stands  In  the  way  of  your 
feelings.     What  Is  It?  " 

"Yes  —  now  or  never,'*  she  thought.  "He 
will  know  It  anyhow.  But  now  he  will  not  for- 
sake me  because  of  It.  Oh,  If  he  should,  how 
dreadful  1  "  And  she  gazed  with  deep  affection 
upon  that  tall,  noble,  powerful  figure.  She  loved 
him  now  more  than  the  Tsar,  and  were  It  not  for 
Nicholas  being  an  emperor,  her  choice  between 
them  would  rest  on  Kasatsky. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  deceive  you.  I 
must  tell  you  everything.  You  asked  me  what 
stood  In  the  way.  It  Is  that  I  have  loved  be- 
fore." 

She  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  with  an  Implor- 
ing gesture. 

He  was  silent. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  19 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  who  it  was?  The  em- 
peror." 

"We  all  loved  him.  I  can  imagine  you,  a 
school-girl  in  the  institute  ^ — " 

"  No.  After  that.  It  was  only  a  passing  in- 
fatuation, but  I  must  tell  you  — ." 

"Well  — what?'' 

"  No ;  it  was  not  simply  — '*  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  Whatl     You  gave  yourself  to  him?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  His  mistress?  " 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  pale  as  death,  with 
his  teeth  chattering,  stood  before  her.  He  now 
remembered  how  the  emperor,  meeting  him  on 
the  Nevsky,  had  congratulated  him. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  what  have  I  done  I     Stephen !  " 

"Don't  touch  me  —  don't  touch  me  1  Oh, 
how  terrible  I  " 

He  turned  and  went  to  the  house. 

There  he  met  her  mother. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  prince?''  she 
stopped,  seeing  his  face.  The  blood  rushed  sud- 
denly to  his  head. 

"  You  knew  it!  And  you  wanted  me  to  shield 
them  I     Oh,    if   you    weren't   a   woman — "    he 


20  FATHER  SERGIUS 

shouted,  raising  his  large  fist.  Then  he  turned 
and  ran  away. 

Had  the  lover  of  his  fiancee  been  a  private 
Individual  he  would  have  killed  him.  But  It  was 
his  beloved  Tsar. 

The  next  day  he  asked  for  furlough,  and  then 
for  his  discharge.  Feigning  Illness,  he  refused  to 
see  any  one,  and  went  away  to  the  country. 

There  he  spent  the  summer  putting  his  affairs 
in  order.  When  summer  was  over  he  did  not 
return  to  St.  Petersburg,  but  entered  a  monastery 
with  the  Intention  of  becoming  a  monk. 

His  mother  wrote  to  dissuade  him  from  this 
momentous  step.  He  answered  that  he  felt  a 
vocation  for  God  which  was  above  all  other  con- 
siderations. It  was  only  his  sister,  who  was  as 
proud  and  ambitious  as  himself,  who  understood 
him. 

She  was  quite  right  in  her  estimate  of  his  mo- 
tives. His  becoming  a  monk  was  only  to  show 
his  contempt  for  all  that  seemed  most  Important 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  had  seemed  so  to 
himself  while  he  was  still  an  officer.  He  climbed 
to  a  pinnacle  from  which  he  could  look  down  on 
those  he  had  previously  envied.  However,  con- 
trary to  his  sister's  opinion,  this  was  not  the  only 
guiding  motive.  Mingled  with  his  pride  and  his 
paslRon  for  ascendancy,  there  was  also  a  genuine 


FATHER  SERGIUS  21 

religious  sentiment  which  Varvara  did  not  know 
he  possessed.  His  sense  of  injury  and  his  disap- 
pointment in  Mary,  whom  he  had  thought  such 
an  angel,  were  so  poignant  that  they  led  him  to 
despair.  His  despair  led  where?  To  God,  to 
faith,  to  a  childish  faith  which  had  never  been 
destroyed. 


II 


On  the  feast  of  the  Intercession  of  the  Virgin, 
Kasatsky  entered  the  monastery  to  show  his  su- 
periority over  all.  those  who  fancied  themselves 
above  him. 

The  abbot  was  a  nobleman  by  birth,  a  learned 
man,  and  a  writer.  He  belonged  to  that  monas- 
tic order  which  hails  from  Walachia,  the  mem- 
bers of  which  choose,  and  in  their  turn  are  chosen, 
leaders  to  be  followed  unswervingly  and  implic- 
itly obeyed. 

This  abbot  was  the  disciple  of  the  famous  Am- 
brosius,  disciple  of  Makardix  of  the  Leonidas, 
disciple  of  PaTssy  Velichkovsky. 

To  this  abbot  Kasatsky  submitted  himself  as  to 
the  superior  of  his  choice. 

Beside  the  feeling  of  ascendancy  over  others, 
which  Kasatsky  felt  in  the  monastery  as  he  had 
felt  it  in  the  world,  he  found  here  the  joy  of  at- 
taining perfection  in  the  highest  degree  inwardly 
as  well  as  outwardly.  As  in  the  regiment,  he  had 
rejoiced  in  being  more  than  an  irreproachable 
officer,  even  exceeding  his  duties;  so  as  a  monk 
his  endeavour  was  to  be  perfect,  industrious,  ab- 

22 


FATHER  SERGIUS  23 

stemious,  meek,  and  humble:  and,  above  all, 
pure,  not  only  in  deed  but  In  thought;  and  obe- 
dient. This  last  quality  made  his  life  there  far 
easier.  In  that  much-frequented  monastery  there 
were  many  conditions  objectionable  to  him,  but 
through  obedience  he  became  reconciled  to  them 
all. 

"It  Is  not  for  me  to  reason.  I  have  but  to 
obey,  whatever  the  command."  On  guard  be- 
fore the  sacred  relics,  singing  In  the  choir,  or  add- 
ing up  accounts  In  the  hostelry,  all  possibility  of 
doubt  was  silenced  by  obedience  to  his  superior. 
Had  It  not  been  for  that,  the  monotony  and 
length  of  the  church  service,  the  Intrusion  of  vis- 
itors and  the  Inferiority  of  the  other  monks, 
would  have  been  extremely  distasteful  to  him. 
But  as  It  was  he  bore  It  all  perfectly  and  found 
It  even  a  solace  and  a  support. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  thought,  "  why  I  ought  to 
hear  the  same  prayers  many  times  a  day,  but  I 
know  that  It  Is  necessary,  and  knowing  this  I 
rejoice."  His  superior  had  told  him  that  as  food 
Is  necessary  for  the  life  of  the  body,  so  is  spir- 
itual food,  such  as  prayers  in  church,  necessary 
for  maintaining  the  life  of  the  spirit.  He  be- 
lieved It,  and  though  he  found  the  service  for 
which  he  had  to  rise  at  a  very  early  hour  a  diffi- 
culty, it  brought  him  indubitable  comfort  and  joy. 


24  FATHER  SERGIUS 

This  was  the  result  of  humility  and  the  certainty 
that  anything  done  in  obedience  to  the  superior 
was  right. 

The  aim  of  his  life  was  neither  the  gradual  at- 
tainment of  utter  subjugation  of  his  will,  nor  the 
attainment  of  greater  and  greater  humility;  but 
the  achievement  of  all  those  Christian  virtues 
which  seemed  in  the  beginning  so  easy  of  posses- 
sion. 

Being  not  in  the  least  half  hearted,  he  gave 
what  fortune  remained  to  him  to  the  monastery 
without  regret. 

Humility  before  his  inferiors,  far  from  being 
difficult,  was  a  delight  to  him.  Even  the  victory 
over  the  sins  of  greed  and  lust  were  easy  for  him. 
The  superior  had  especially  warned  him  against 
this  latter  sin,  but  Kasatsky  was  glad  to  feel  im- 
munity from  it.  He  was  only  tortured  by  the 
thought  of  his  fiancee.  It  was  not  only  the 
thought  of  what  had  been;  but  the  vivid  picture 
of  what  might  have  been.  He  could  not  resist 
recalling  to  himself  the  image  of  the  famous  mis- 
tress of  the  emperor  who  afterwards  married  and 
became  a  good  wife  and  mother.  Her  husband 
had  a  high  position,  influence,  and  esteem,  and  a 
good  and  penitent  wife. 

In  his  better  hours  Kasatsky  was  not  distressed 
by  this  thought.     At  such  times  he  rejoiced  that 


FATHER  SERGIUS  25, 

these  temptations  were  past.  But  there  were  mo- 
ments when  all  that  went  to  make  up  his  present 
life  grew  dark  before  his  mind;  moments  when, 
,  if  he  did  not  actually  cease  to  believe  in  the  foun- 
dation of  his  present  life,  he  was  at  least  unable 
to  perceive  it;  when  he  could  not  discover  the  ob- 
ject of  his  present  life;  when  he  was  overcome 
with  recollections  of  the  past,  and  terrible  to  say, 
with  regret  at  having  abandoned  the  world.  His 
only  salvation  in  that  state  of  mind  was  obedience 
and  work,  and  prayers  the  whole  day  long.  He 
went  through  his  usual  forms  at  prayers,  he  even 
prayed  more  than  was  his  wont,  but  It  was  lip- 
service,  and  his  soul  took  no  part.  This  condi- 
tion would  sometimes  last  a  day  or  two  days,  and 
would  then  pass  away.  But  these  days  were  hid- 
eous. Kasatsky  felt  that  he  was  neither  In  his 
own  hands  nor  God's,  but  subject  to  some  outside 
will.  All  he  could  do  at  those  times  was  to  fol- 
low the  advice  of  his  superior  and  undertake  noth- 
ing, but  simply  wait. 

On  the  whole,  Kasatsky  lived  then,  not  accord- 
ing to  his  own  will  but  In  complete  obedience  to 
his  superior;  and  In  that  obedience  he  found 
peace. 

Such  was  Kasatsky's  life  in  his  first  monastery, 
which  lasted  seven  years.  At  the  end  of  the 
third  year  he  was  ordained  to  the  priesthood  and 


26  FATHER  SERGIUS 

was  given  the  name  of  Serglus.  The  ordination 
was  a  momentous  event  In  his  inner  life.  He  had 
previously  experienced  great  comfort  and  spirit- 
ual uplifting  at  holy  communions.  At  first,  when 
he  was  himself  celebrating  mass,  at  the  moment 
of  the  oblation,  his  soul  was  filled  with  exaltation. 
But  gradually  this  sense  became  dulled;  and  when 
on  one  occasion  he  had  to  celebrate  mass  In  an 
hour  of  depression  as  he  sometimes  had,  he  felt 
that  this  exaltation  could  not  endure.  The  emo- 
tion eventually  paled  until  only  the  habit  was  left. 

On  the  whole,  In  the  seven  years  of  his  life  In 
the  monastery,  Serglus  began  to  grow  weary.  All 
that  he  had  to  learn,  all  that  he  had  to  attain 
was  done,  and  he  had  nothing  more  to  do. 

But  his   stupefaction  only  increased.     During 
that  time  he  heard  of  his  mother's  death  and  of 
Mary's  marriage.     Both  events  were  matters  of  f^^ 
indifference  to  him,  as  all  his  attention  and  all  his  ^ 
interest  were  concentrated  on  his  inner  life. 

In  the  fourth  year  of  his  monastic  experience, 
during  which  the  bishop  had  shown  him  marked 
kindness,  his  superior  told  him  that  In  the  event 
of  high  honours  being  offered  to  him  he  should 
not  decline.  Just  then  monastic  ambition,  pre- 
cisely that  quality  which  was  so  disgusting  to  him 
in  all  the  other  monks,  arose  within  him.  He 
was  sent  to  a  monastery  close  to  the  capital.     He 


FATHER  SERGIUS  27 

would  have  been  glad  to  refuse,  but  his  superior 
ordered  him  to  accept,  so  he  obeyed,  and  taking 
leave  of  his  superior,  left  for  the  other  monastery. 

This  transfer  to  the  monastery  near  the  me- 
tropolis was  an  important  event  In  Serglus's  life. 
There  he  encountered  many  temptations,  and  his 
whole  will  power  was  concentrated  on  the  strug- 
gle they  entailed.  In  the  first  monastery  women 
were  no  trial  to  him,  but  In  the  second  Instance 
this  special  temptation  assumed  grave  dimensions 
and  even  took  definite  shape. 

There  was  a  lady  known  for  her  frivolous  be- 
haviour, who  began  to  seek  his  favour.  She 
talked  to  him  and  asked  him  to  call  upon  her. 
Serglus  refused  with  severity,  but  was  horrified 
at  the  definiteness  of  his  desire.  He  was  so 
alarmed  that  he  wrote  to  his  superior.  More- 
over, for  the  sake  of  humiliation,  he  called  a 
young  novice  and,  conquering  his  shame,  con- 
fessed his  weakness.  He  begged  him  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him  and  not  let  him  go  anywhere  but  to 
service  and  to  do  penance. 

Besides  that,  Serglus  suffered  severely  on  ac- 
count of  his  great  antipathy  to  the  abbot  of  this 
monastery,  a  worldly  man  and  clever  In  worldly 
ways  who  was  making  a  career  for  himself  within 
the  church.  In  spite  of  his  most  earnest  en- 
deavours, Serglus  could  not  overcome  his  dislike 


28  FATHER  SERGIUS 

for  him.  He  was  submissive  to  him,  but  in  his 
heart  he  criticised  him  unceasingly.  At  last, 
when  he  had  been  there  nearly  two  years,  his  real 
sentiments  burst  forth. 

On  the  feast  of  the  Intercession  of  the  Virgin, 
the  vesper  service  was  being  celebrated  in  the 
church  proper.  There  were  many  visitors  from 
the  neighbourhood,  and  the  service  was  con- 
ducted by  the  abbot  himself.  Father  Sergius  was 
standing  In  his  usual  place,  and  was  praying;  that 
Is  to  say,  he  was  engaged  In  that  Inner  combat 
which  always  occupied  him  during  service,  espe- 
cially in  this  second  monastery. 

The  conflict  was  caused  by  his  irritation  at  the 
presence  of  all  the  fine  folk  and  especially  the 
ladies.  He  tried  not  to  notice  what  was  going 
on  around  him.  He  could  not  help,  however, 
seeing  a  soldier  who  while  conducting  the  better 
dressed  people  pushed  the  common  crowd  aside, 
and  noticing  the  ladles  who  pointed  out  the 
monks,  often  himself  and  another  monk  as  well, 
who  was  noted  for  his  good  looks.  He  tried  to 
concentrate  his  mind,  to  see  nothing  but  the  ligh£ 
of  the  candles  on  the  ikonostasis,  the  sacred  im- 
ages, and  the  priests.  He  tried  to  hear  nothing 
but  the  prayers  which  were  spoken  and  chanted; 
to  feel  nothing  but  self-oblivion  In  the  fulfilment 
of  his  duty.     This  was  a  feeling  he  always  ex- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  29 

perienced  when  he  listened  to  prayers  and  antici- 
pated the  word  in  the  prayers  he  had  so  often 
heard. 

So  he  stood,  crossing  himself,  prostrating  him- 
self, struggling  with  himself,  now  indulging  in 
quiet  condemnation,  and  now  giving  himself  up 
to  that  obliteration  of  thought  and  feeling  which 
he  voluntarily  induced  in  himself. 

When  the  treasurer,  Father  Nicodemus  (also 
a  great  stumbling-block  in  Father  Sergius's  way 
—  that  Father  Nicodemus!),  whom  he  couldn't 
help  censuring  for  flattering  and  fawning  on  the 
abbot,  approached  him,  and  saluting  him  with  a 
low  bow  that  nearly  bent  him  in  two,  said  that  the 
abbot  requested  his  presence  behind  the  holy 
gates.  Father  Sergius  straightened  his  cassock, 
covered  his  head,  and  went  circumspectly  through 
the  crowd. 

"  Lise,  regardes  a  droite  —  c^est  lui/^  he  heard 
a  woman's  voice  say. 

*'  Ou,  ouf     II  n'est  pas  tellement  beau!  *' 

He  knew  they  were  referring  to  him.  As  his 
habit  was  when  he  was  tempted,  he  repeated, 
"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation."  Dropping  his 
eyes  and  bowing  his  head,  he  walked  past  the 
lectern  and  the  canons,  who  at  that  moment  were 
passing  in  front  of  the  ikonostasis ;  and  went  be- 
hind the  holy  gates  by  the  north  portal.     Ac- 


30  FATHER  SERGIUS 

cording  to  custom,  he  crossed  himself,  bending 
double  before  the  ikon.  Then  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  the  abbot,  whom,  together  with 
some  one  standing  beside  him  in  brilliant  array, 
he  had  already  seen  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

The  abbot  stood  against  the  wall  in  his  vest- 
ments, taking  his  short  fat  hands  from  beneath 
his  chasuble  and  folding  them  on  his  fat  stom- 
ach. Fingering  the  braid  on  his  chasuble,  he 
smiled  as  he  talked  to  a  man  wearing  the  uniform 
of  a  general  in  the  emperor's  suite,  with  insignia 
and  epaulettes,  which  Father  Serglus  at  once  rec- 
ognised with  his  experienced  military  eye.  This 
general  was  a  former  colonel  In  command  of  his 
regiment,  who  now  evidently  held  a  very  high 
position.  Father  Serglus  at  once  noticed  that  the 
abbot  was  fully  aware  of  this,  and  was  so  pleased 
that  his  fat  red  face  and  his  bald  head  gleamed 
with  satisfaction.  Father  Serglus  was  grieved 
and  disgusted,  and  all  the  more  so  when  he  heard 
from  the  abbot  that  he  had  only  sent  for  him  to 
satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  general,  who  wanted 
to  see  his  famous  "  colleague,"  as  he  put  It. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  in  your  angelic  guise," 
said  the  general,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  hope 
you  have  not  forgotten  your  old  comrade." 

The  whole  thing  —  the  abbot's  red  and  smiling 
'face  above  his  white  beard  in  evident  approval  of 


FATHER  SERGIUS  31 

the  generaFs  words;  the  well-scrubbed  face  of 
the  general  with  his  self-satisfied  smile,  the  smell 
of  wine  from  the  general's  breath,  and  the 
smell  of  cigars  from  his  whiskers  —  made  Sergius 
boil. 

He  bowed  once  more  before  the  abbot,  and 
said,  "  Your  grace  deigned  to  call  me — "  and  he 
stopped,  asking  by  the  very  expression  of  his  face 
and  eyes,  "What  for?" 

The  abbot  said,  "  Yes,  to  meet  the  general." 

"  Your  grace,  I  left  the  world  to  save  myself 
from  temptation,"  he  said,  pale  and  with  quiver- 
ing lips;  '*  why,  then,  do  you  expose  me  to  it  dur- 
ing prayers  in  the  house  of  God?  " 

"  Go !  go !  "  said  the  abbot,  frowning  and  grow- 
ing angry. 

Next  day  Father  Sergius  asked  forgiveness  of 
the  abbot  and  of  the  brethren  for  his  pride.  But 
at  the  same  time,  after  a  night  spent  in  prayer, 
he  decided  that  his  only  possible  course  was  to 
leave  this  monastery;  so  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
superior  imploring  him  to  grant  him  leave  to  re- 
turn to  his  monastery.  He  wrote  that  he  felt 
his  weakness  and  the  impossibility  of  struggling 
alone  against  temptation  without  his  help.  He  did 
penance  for  his  sin  of  pride.  The  next  post 
brought  him  a  letter  from  the  superior,  who  wrote 
that  the  sole  cause  of  all  his  trouble  was  pride. 


32  FATHER  SERGIUS 

The  old  man  explained  to  him  that  his  fits  of  an- 
ger were  due  to  the  fact  that  in  refusing  all  clerical 
honour  he  humiliated  himself  not  for  the  sake  of 
God,  but  for  the  sake  of  his  pride ;  merely  for  the 
sake  of  saying  to  himself:  "Now,  am  I  not  a 
splendid  fellow  not  to  desire  anything?"  That 
was  why  he  could  not  tolerate  the  abbot's  action. 
"  I  have  renounced  everything  for  the  glory  of 
God,  and  here  I  am  exhibited  like  a  wild  beast !  " 
"  If  you  would  just  give  up  vanity  for  God's  glory 
you  would  be  able  to  bear  it,"  wrote  the  old  man; 
"  worldly  pride  Is  not  yet  dead  in  you.  I  have 
thought  often  of  you,  Sergius,  my  son.  I 
have  prayed  also,  and  this  Is  God's  message 
with  regard  to  you:  Go  on  as  you  are,  and  sub- 
mit." 

At  that  moment  tidings  came  that  the  recluse 
Hilary,  a  man  of  saintly  life,  had  died  In  the 
hermitage.  He  had  lived  there  for  eighteen 
years.  The  abbot  of  that  hermitage  Inquired 
whether  there  was  not  a  brother  who  would  take 
his  place. 

"  Now  with  regard  to  that  letter  of  yours," 
wrote  the  superior,  *'  go  to  Father  Paissy,  of  the 

T Monastery.     I  have  written  to  him  about 

you,  and  asked  him  to  take  you  Into  Hilary's  cell. 
I  do  not  say  you  could  replace  Hilary,  but  you 


FATHER  SERGIUS  33 

want  solitude  to  stifle  your  pride.  And  may  God 
bless  you  In  your  undertaking." 

Serglus  obeyed  his  superior,  showed  his  letter 
to  the  abbot,  and,  asking  his  permission,  gave  up 
his  cell,  handed  all  his  belongings  over  to  the 
monastery,  and  departed  for  the  hermitage  at 
T . 

The  abbot  of  that  hermitage,  a  former  mer- 
chant, received  Serglus  calmly  and  quietly,  and 
left  him  alone  In  his  cell.  This  cell  was  a  cave 
dug  In  a  mountain,  and  Hilary  was  burled  there. 
In  a  niche  at  the  back  was  Hilary's  grave,  and  In 
front  was  a  place  to  sleep,  a  small  table,  and  a 
shelf  with  Ikons  and  books.  At  the  entrance 
door,  which  could  be  closed,  was  another  shelf. 
Upon  that  shelf  food  was  placed  once  a  day  by  a 
brother  from  the  monastery. 

So  Father  Serglus  became  a  hermit. 


Ill 


During  the  Carnival  in  Sergius's  second  year  of 
seclusion  a  merry  company  of  rich  people,  ladies 
and  gentlemen  from  the  neighbouring  town,  made 
up  a  troika  party  after  a  meal  of  carnival  pan- 
cakes and  wine.  The  company  was  composed  of 
two  lawyers,  a  wealthy  landowner,  an  officer,  and 
four  ladies.  One  of  the  ladies  was  the  wife  of  the 
officer;  another  was  the  wife  of  the  landowner; 
the  third  was  his  sister,  a  young  girl;  the  fourth 
was  a  divorcee,  beautiful,  rich,  a  little  mad,  whose 
ways  gave  rise  to  amazement  and  indignation  In 
the  town. 

The  night  was  fine ;  the  roads  smooth  as  a  floor. 
They  drove  ten  miles  out  of  town,  and  then  held 
a  consultation  as  to  whether  they  should  turn  back 
or  go  on. 

"But  where  does  this  road  lead?'*  asked 
Madame  Makovkin,  the  beautiful  divorcee. 

"  To  T ,  twelve  miles  further  on,"  said  the 

lawyer  who  was  having  a  flirtation  with  Madame 
Makovkin. 

"And  beyond?" 

34 


FATHER  SERGIUS  35 

"  Then  to  L ,  past  the  monastery." 

"  Oh,  the  one  where  Father  Serglus  is?  '* 

"  Yes.'» 

"  The  handsome  hermit  —  Kasatsky." 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  ■ —  messieurs  et  mesdames  I  —  let  us  go  in 

and  see  Kasatsky.     We  can  rest  at  T •  and 

have  a  bite." 

"  But  we  shan't  get  home  to-night?  " 

"  We'll  just  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's 
then." 

"  Of  course.  There  is  a  hostelry  at  the  mon- 
astery, and  a  very  good  one.  When  I  was  de- 
fending Maklne  I  stopped  there." 

"  No,  I  shall  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's !  " 

"  Even  your  great  power,  dear  lady,  could  not 
make  that  possible." 

"Not  possible?     I'll  bet  you!" 

"  Good !  If  you  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's 
I'll  pay  you  whatever  you  like." 

*' A  discretion!'* 

"  And  you  the  same,  remember." 

"Agreed!     Let's  start." 

They  gave  the  driver  some  wine,  and  they 
opened  a  basket  of  pies,  cakes,  and  wines  for 
themselves.  The  ladies  drew  their  white  furs 
round  about  them.  The  postillions  broke  into  a 
dispute   as  to  which  should  go   ahead,   and  the 


36  FATHER  SERGIUS 

younger  one,  turning  sharply  round,  lifted  his 
whip-handle  high  up  and  shouted  at  the  horses; 
the  bells  tinkled,  and  the  runners  creaked  beneath 
the  sledge.  The  sledge  swayed  and  rocked  a  lit- 
tle ;  the  outer  horses  trotted  smoothly  and  briskly, 
with  their  tightly-bound  tails  under  the  gaily  dec- 
orated breech-bands.  The  slippery  road  faded 
away  rapidly.  The  driver  held  the  reins 
tightly. 

The  lawyer  and  the  officer  who  sat  on  the  back 
seat  talked  nonsense  to  Madame  Makovkin's 
neighbour,  and  she  herself,  huddled  In  her  furs, 
sat  motionless  and  in  thought. 

*'  Eternally  the  same  old  things!  The  ugliness 
of  It.  Shiny  red  faces  reeking  with  liquor  and 
with  tobacco,  the  same  words,  the  same  thoughts, 
for  ever  the  same  abomination;  and  they  are  all 
content  and  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so,  and  thus 
they  will  go  on  till  they  die.  But  I  can't  —  it 
bores  me.  I  want  something  to  happen  that  will 
upset  and  shatter  the  whole  thing.  We  might  at 
least  be  frozen  to  death  as  they  were  at  Saratov. 
What  would  these  people  do?  How  would  they 
behave?  Execrably,  I  suppose.  Everybody 
would  think  of  nothing  but  himself,  and  I  no  less 
than  the  rest.  But  I  have  beauty  —  that's  some- 
thing. They  know  It.  Well  —  and  that  monk 
t— 7I  wonder  If  he  really  Is  Indifferent  to  beauty. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  37 

No,  they  all  care  for  it,  just  like  that  cadet  last 
autumn.     And  what  a  fool  he  was  I  " 

"  Ivan  Nicolaievich,'*  she  said. 

He  answered,  "Yes?" 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  Kasatsky." 

"  Over  forty,  I  should  think." 

"  Does  he  receive  visitors?  Does  he  see  every- 
body?" 

"  Everybody,  yes;  but  not  always." 

"Cover  up  my  feet.  Not  that  way — ^how 
clumsy  you  are?  Yes,  like  that.  But  you 
needn't  squeeze  them." 

Thus  they  came  to  the  forest  where  the  cell 
was. 

She  stepped  out  of  the  sledge  and  bade  them 
drive  on.  They  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but  she 
grew  irritable,  and  commanded  them  to  go  on. 

Father  Sergius  was  now  forty-nine  years  old. 
His  life  in  solitude  was  very  hard:  not  because 
of  fasting  and  prayers.  He  endured  those  easily. 
But  it  was  the  inner  struggle  which  he  had  not 
anticipated.  There  were  two  reasons  for  this 
struggle :  his  religious  doubts  and  the  temptations 
of  desire.  He  thought  these  were  two  different 
fiends.  But  they  were  one  and  the  same.  When 
his  doubts  were  gone  lust  was  gone.     But  think- 


38  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Ing  these  were  two  different  devils,  he  fought  them 
separately.  They,  however,  always  attacked  him 
together. 

*'0  my  God,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "  why  dost 
Thou  not  give  me  faith?  There  is  lust  of  course, 
but  even  St.  Anthony  and  the  rest  had  to  fight 
that;  but  faith  —  they  had  that!  There  are  mo- 
ments and  hours  and  days  when  I  do  not  possess 
it.  Why  does  the  world  exist  with  all  its  charm, 
if  It  is  sinful  and  we  must  renounce  it?  Why  hast 
Thou  created  this  temptation?  Temptation? 
But  isn't  this  temptation  to  renounce  the  joys  of 
the  world  and  to  prepare  for  the  life  beyond, 
where  there  is  nothing  and  where  there  can  be 
nothing?."  Saying  this  to  himself,  he  became 
horrified  and  filled  with  disgust  at  himself. 

"You  vile  thing!  And  you  think  of  being  a 
saint!  "  he  said. 

He  rose  to  pray.  But  when  he  began  praying 
he  saw  himself  as  he  appeared  at  the  monastery 
In  his  vestments  and  all  his  grandeur,  and  he 
shook  his  head. 

"  No,  that  is  not  so.  It  is  a  lie.  I  may  de- 
ceive all  the  world,  but  not  myself,  and  not  God. 
I  am  insignificant.  I  am  pitiable."  And  he 
pushed  back  the  skirts  of  his  cassock,  and  gazed 
at  his  thin  legs  in  their  underclothing. 

Then  he  dropped  his  robe  again,  and  began  to 


FATHER  SERGIUS  39 

repeat  his  prayers,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
and  prostrating  himself. 

"  Will  that  couch  be  my  bier?  "  he  read;  and, 
as  if  a  demon  whispered  to  him,  he  heard:  "The 
solitary  couch  is  also  the  coffin.'* 

"It  Is  a  lie!  "  and  he  saw  in  imagination  the 
shoulders  of  a  widow  who  had  been  his  mistress. 
He  shook  himself  and  went  on  reading.  After 
having  read  the  precepts  he  took  up  the  Gospels. 
He  opened  the  book  at  a  passage  that  he  had 
often  repeated  and  knew  by  heart. 

"  Lord,  I  believe.     Help  thou  my  unbelief." 

He  stifled  the  doubts  that  arose.  Just  as  one 
replaces  an  object  without  disturbing  Its  balance, 
he  carefully  put  his  faith  back  into  its  position 
while  it  trembled  at  its  base,  and  stepped  back 
cautiously  so  as  neither  to  touch  it  nor  upset  It. 
He  again  pulled  himself  together  and  regained  his 
peace  of  mind  and  repeating  his  childish  prayer: 
"  O  Lord,  take  me,  take  me !  "  felt  not  only  at 
ease,  but  glad  and  thrilled.  He  crossed  himself 
and  lay  down  to  sleep  on  his  narrow  bench,  put- 
ting his  light  summer  garment  under  his  head. 
He  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  once.  In  his  light 
slumber  he  heard  small  tinkling  bells.  He  did 
not  know  whether  he  was  dreaming  or  waking. 
But  a  knock  at  the  door  aroused  him.  He  sat  up 
on  his  couch,  not  trusting  his  senses.     The  knock 


40  FATHER  SERGIUS 

came  again.  lYes,  it  was  nearer,  it  was  at  his  own 
door,  and  after  It  came  the  sound  of  a  woman's 
voice. 

*'  My  God!  is  it  true  that  the  devil  takes  the 
form  of  a  woman,  as  I  have  read  In  the  lives  of 
the  saints?  Yes  —  It  Is  a  woman's  voice!  So 
timid  —  so  sweet  —  so  tender !  "  And  he  spat  to 
exorcise  the  devil.  *'  No !  It  was  only  imagina- 
tion! "  and  he  went  to  the  corner  where  the  lec- 
tern stood  and  fell  on  his  knees,  his  regular  and 
habitual  motion  that  of  itself  gave  him  comfort 
and  pleasure.  He  bowed  low,  his  hair  falling 
forward  on  his  face,  and  pressed  his  bare  fore- 
head to  the  damp,  cold  floor.  There  was  a 
draught  from  the  floor.  He  read  a  psalm  which, 
as  old  Father  Piman  had  told  him,  would  ward  off 
the  assaults  of  the  devil.  His  light,  slender 
frame  started  up  upon  Its  strong  limbs,  and  he 
meant  to  go  on  reading  his  prayers.  But  he  did 
n'^t  read.  He  Involuntarily  inclined  his  head  to 
listen.     He  wanted  to  hear  more. 

All  was  silent.  From  the  corner  of  the  roof 
the  same  regular  drops  fell  Into  the  tub  below. 
Without  was  a  mist,  a  fog  that  swallowed  up  the 
snow.  It  was  still,  very  still.  There  was  a  sud- 
den rustle  at  the  window,  and  a  distinct  voice,  the 
same  tender,  timid  voice,  a  voice  that  could  only 
belong  to  a  charming  woman. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  41 

"  Let  me  in,  for  Christ's  sake." 

All  the  blood  rushed  to  his  heart  and  settled 
there.     He  could  not  even  sigh. 

"  May  the  Lord  appear  and  his  enemies  be  con- 
founded." 

"But  I  am  not  the  devill '* 

He  could  not  hear  that  the  words  were  spoken 
by  smiling  lips.  "  I  am  not  the  devil.  I  am  just 
a  wicked  woman  that's  lost  her  way,  literally  and 
figuratively."  (She  laughed.)  "I  am  frozen, 
and  I  beg  for  shelter." 

He  put  his  face  close  to  the  window.  The 
little  ikon  lamp  was  reflected  in  the  glass.  He 
put  his  hands  up  to  his  face  and  peered  between 
them.  Fog,  mist,  darkness,  a  tree,  and  —  at  the 
right  —  She  herself,  a  woman  in  thick  white  furs, 
in  a  fur  cap  with  a  lovely,  lovely,  gentle,  fright- 
ened face,  two  inches  away,  leaning  towards  him. 
Their  eyes  met  and  they  recognised  each  other  — 
not  because  they  had  ever  seen  each  other  before. 
They  had  never  met.  But  in  the  look  they 
exchanged  they  felt  —  and  he  particularly  — 
that  they  knew  each  other;  that  they  under- 
stood. 

After  that  glance  which  they  exchanged  how 
could  he  entertain  any  further  doubt  that  this  was 
the  devil  instead  of  just  a  sweet,  timid,  fright- 
ened woman? 


42  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"Who  are  you?  Why  have  you  come?"  he 
asked. 

"  Open  the  door,  I  say,'*  she  said  with  a  whim- 
sical authority.     "  I  tell  you  I've  lost  my  way." 

"  But  I  am  a  monk  —  a  hermit." 

"  Open  that  door  all  the  same.  Do  you  want 
me  to  freeze  while  you  say  your  prayers?  " 

"But  how—" 

"  I  won't  eat  you.  Let  me  In  for  God's  sake. 
I'm  quite  frozen." 

She  began  to  be  really  frightened  and  spoke 
almost  tearfully. 

He  stepped  back  into  the  room,  looked  at  the 
ikon  representing  the  Saviour  with  His  crown  of 
thorns. 

"  God  help  me  —  help  me,  O  God!  "  he  said, 
crossing  himself  and  bowing  low.  Then  he  went 
to  the  door  which  opened  Into  the  little  porch, 
and  feeling  for  the  latch  tried  to  unhook  it.  He 
heard  steps  outside.  She  was  going  from  the  win- 
dow to  the  door. 

"  Oh !  "  he  heard  her  exclaim,  and  he  knew  she 
had  stepped  Into  a  puddle  made  by  the  dripping 
rain.  His  hands  trembled,  and  he  could  not  move 
the  hook  which  stuck  a  little. 

"  Well,  can't  you  let  me  In?  I'm  quite  soaked, 
and  I'm  frozen.  You  are  only  bent  on  saving 
your  own  soul  while  I  freeze  to  death." 


FATHER  SERGIUS  43 

He  jerked  the  door  towards  him  in  order  to 
raise  the  latch,  and  then,  unable  to  measure  his 
movements,  pushed  it  open  with  such  violence 
that  it  struck  her. 

"Oh  —  pardon!'*  he  said  suddenly,  reverting 
to  his  former  tone  with  ladies. 

She  smiled,  hearing  that  "  pardon."  "  Oh, 
well,  he's  not  so  dreadful,"  she  thought.  "  Never 
mind;  it  is  you  who  must  pardon  me,"  she  said, 
passing  by  him.  "  I  would  never  have  ventured, 
but  such  an  extraordinary  circumstance — " 

"  If  you  please,"  he  said,  making  way  for  her. 

He  was  struck  by  the  fragrance  of  fine  perfume 
that  he  had  not  smelt  for  many  a  long  day. 

She  went  through  the  porch  into  the  chamber. 
He  shut  the  outer  door  without  latching  it  and 
passed  into  the  room  after  her.  Not  only  in  his 
heart  but  involuntarily  moving  his  lips  he  repeated 
unceasingly,  "  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God, 
have  mercy  on  me,  a  sinner,  have  mercy  on  me,  a 


sinner." 


"  If  you  please,"  he  said  to  her  again. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dripping, 
and  examined  him  closely.     Her  eyes  smiled. 

"  Forgive  me  for  disturbing  your  solitude,"  she 
said,  "  but  you  must  see  what  a  position  I  am 
placed  in.  It  all  came  about  by  our  coming  out 
for  a  drive  from  town.     I  made  a  wager  that  I 


44  FATHER  SERGIUS 

would  walk  by  myself  from  Vorobievka  to  town. 
But  I  lost  my  way.  That's  how  I  happened  to 
find  your  cell."     Her  lies  now  began. 

But  his  face  confused  her  so  that  she  could  not 
proceed,  so  she  stopped.  She  expected  him  to  be 
quite  different  from  the  man  she  saw.  He  was 
not  as  handsome  as  she  had  imagined,  but  he  was 
beautiful  to  her.  His  grey  hair  and  beard, 
slightly  curling,  his  fine,  regular  features  and  his 
eyes  like  burning  coals  when  he  looked  straight 
at  her,  impressed  her  profoundly.  He  saw  that 
she  was  lying. 

"Yes;  very  well,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  and 
dropping  his  eyes.  *'  Now  I  will  go  in  there,  and 
this  place  is  at  your  disposal." 

He  took  the  burning  lamp  down  from  before 
the  ikon,  lit  a  candle,  and  making  a  low  bow  went 
out  to  the  little  niche  on  the  other  side  of  the  par- 
tition, and  she  heard  him  begin  to  move  some- 
thing there. 

"  He  is  probably  trying  to  shut  himself  up  away 
from  me,"  she  thought,  smiling.  Taking  off  her 
white  fur,  she  tried  to  remove  her  cap,  but  it 
caught  in  her  hair  and  in  the  knitted  shawl  she 
was  wearing  underneath  it.  She  had  not  got  wet 
at  all  standing  outside  at  the  window.  She  said 
so  only  as  a  pretext  to  be  admitted.  But  she  had 
really  stepped  into  a  puddle  at  the  door,  and  her 


FATHER  SERGIUS  45 

left  foot  was  wet  to  the  ankle,  and  one  shoe  was 
full  of  water.  She  sat  down  on  his  bed,  a  bench 
only  covered  with  a  carpet,  and  began  to  take  her 
shoes  off.  The  little  cell  pleased  her.  It  was 
about  nine  feet  by  twelve,  and  as  clean  as  glass. 
There  was  nothing  in  it  save  the  bench  on  which 
she  sat,  the  book-shelf  above  it,  and  the  lectern  in 
the  corner.  On  the  door  were  nails  where  his  fur 
coat  and  his  cassock  hung.  Beside  the  lantern 
was  the  image  of  Christ  with  His  crown  of  thorns, 
and  the  lamp.  The  room  smelt  strangely  of  oil 
and  of  earth.  She  liked  everything,  even  that 
smell.  Her  wet  feet  were  uncomfortable,  the  left 
one  especially,  and  she  took  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  never  ceasing  to  smile.  She  was  happy 
not  only  in  having  achieved  her  object,  but  be- 
cause she  perceived  that  he  was  troubled  by  her 
presence.  He,  the  charming,  striking,  strange, 
attractive  man! 

"  Well,  if  he  wasn't  responsive,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter," she  said  to  herself.  "Father  Sergius! 
Father  Sergius  1  —  or  what  am  I  to  call 
you  I" 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  answered  a  low  voice. 

"  Please  forgive  me  for  disturbing  your  soli- 
tude, but  really  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  would  have 
fallen  ill.  And  even  now  I  don't  know  if  I  shan't. 
Fm  quite  wet  and  my  feet  are  like  ice." 


46  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"  Pardon  me/'  answered  the  quiet  voice.  "  I 
cannot  be  of  any  assistance  to  you." 

"  I  would  not  have  come  if  I  could  have  helped 
it.     I  shall  only  stop  till  dawn." 

He  did  not  answer.  She  heard  him  muttering 
something,   probably  his  prayers. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  come  in  here,"  she  said, 
smiling,  **  for  I  must  undress  to  get  dry." 

He  did  not  answer,  continuing  to  read  his  pray- 
ers in  a  steady  voice. 

"  That  is  a  man,"  she  thought,  as  she  attempted 
to  remove  her  wet  shoe.  She  tugged  at  it  in  vain 
and  felt  like  laughing.  Almost  inaudibly,  she  did 
laugh;  then,  knowing  that  he  would  hear,  and 
would  be  moved  by  it  just  as  she  wanted  him  to 
be,  she  laughed  louder.  The  kind,  cheerful,  nat- 
ural laughter  did  indeed  affect  him  just  as  she  had 
wished. 

"  I  could  love  a  man  like  that.  Such  eyes;  and 
his  simple,  noble  face,  passionate  in  spite  of  all 
the  prayers  it  mutters.  There's  no  fooling  us 
women  in  that.  The  instant  he  put  his  face 
against  the  window-pane  and  saw  me,  he  knew  me 
and  understood  me.  The  glimmer  of  it  was  in 
his  eyes  and  a  seal  was  set  upon  it  for  ever.  That 
instant  he  began  to  love  me  and  to  want  me. 
Yes  —  he  wants  me,"  she  said,  finally  getting  off 
her  shoe  and  fumbling  at  her  stocking. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  47 

To  remove  those  long  stockings  fastened  with 
elastic,  she  had  to  raise  her  skirts.  She  felt  em- 
barrassed and  said,  "  Don't  come  in."  But  there 
was  no  answer  from  the  other  side  and  she  heard 
the  same  monotonous  murmurs  and  movements. 

"  I  suppose  he's  bowing  down  to  the  ground,'* 
she  thought,  "  but  that  won't  help  him.  He's 
thinking  about  me  just  as  I'm  thinking  about 
him.  He's  thinking  about  these  very  feet  of 
mine,"  she  said,  taking  off  the  wet  stockings  and 
sitting  up  on  the  couch  barefooted,  with  her  hands 
clasped  about  her  knees.  She  sat  awhile  like 
this,  gazing  pensively  before  her. 

"  It's  a  perfect  desert  here.  Nobody  would 
ever  know — " 

She  got  down,  took  her  stockings  over  to  the 
stove  and  hung  them  on  the  damper.  It  was 
such  a  quaint  damper!  She  turned  It,  and  then 
slipping  quietly  over  to  the  couch  she  sat  up  there 
again  with  her  feet  upon  it.  There  was  absolute 
silence  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  She 
looked  at  the  little  watch  hanging  round  her  neck. 
Two  o'clock.  "  My  people  will  return  about 
three."     She  had  more  than  an  hour  before  her. 

"  Well !  Am  I  going  to  sit  here  by  myself  the 
whole  time  ?  Nonsense  I  I  don't  like  that.  I'll 
call  him  at  once.  Father  Serglus!  Father  Ser- 
gius !     Sergei  Dimitrievich !     Prince  Kasatsky !  " 


48  FATHER  SERGIUS 

No  answer. 

"  I  say !  That's  cruel.  I  wouldn't  call  you  If 
I  didn't  need  you.  I'm  111.  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter,"  she  said  In  a  tone  of  suffering. 
**  Oh !  oh !  "  she  groaned,  falling  back  on  the 
couch,  and,  strange  to  say,  she  really  felt  that  she 
was  getting  faint,  that  everything  ached,  that  she 
was  trembling  as  If  with  fever. 

"  Here,  listen !  Help  me  I  I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with.     Oh !  oh !  " 

She  opened  her  dress,  uncovering  her  breast, 
and  raised  her  arms,  bare  to  the  elbows,  above  her 
head.     "Oh,  oh  I" 

All  this  time  he  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  and  prayed. 

Having  finished  all  the  evening  prayers,  he 
stood  motionless,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  end  of  his 
nose,  and  praying  In  his  heart  he  repeated  with  all 
his  soul:  "Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have 
mercy  on  me !  " 

He  had  heard  everything.  He  had  heard  how 
the  silk  rustled  when  she  took  off  her  dress;  how 
she  stepped  on  the  floor  with  her  bare  feet.  He 
heard  how  she  rubbed  her  hands  and  feet.  He 
felt  himself  getting  weak,  and  thought  he  might 
be  lost  at  any  moment.  That  was  why  he  prayed 
unceasingly.  His  feelings  must  have  been  some- 
what like  those  of  the  hero  In  the  fairy  tale  who 


FATHER  SERGIUS  49 

had  to  go  on  and  on  without  ever  turning  back. 
Serglus  heard  and  felt  that  the  danger  was  there 
just  above  his  head,  around  him,  and  that  the  only 
way  to  escape  it  was  not  to  look  round  on  it  for  an 
instant.  Then  suddenly  the  desire  to  see  her  came 
upon  him,  and  at  that  very  instant  she  exclaimed, 
*'  Now  this  is  monstrous !     I  may  die." 

"  Yes,  I  will  cojne.  But  I  will  go  like  that 
saint  who  laid  one  hand  upon  the  adulteress  but 
put  the  other  upon  burning  coals." 

But  there  were  no  burning  coals.  He  looked 
round.     The  lamp !     The  lamp ! 

He  put  a  finger  over  the  flame  and  frowned, 
ready  to  endure.  In  the  beginning  it  seemed  to 
him  that  there  was  no  sensation.  But  then  of  a 
sudden,  before  he  had  decided  whether  it  hurt 
him  or  how  much  it  hurt  him,  his  face  writhed, 
and  he  jerked  his  hand  away,  shaking  it  in  the 
air. 

"  No,  that  I  can't  do." 

"  For  God's  sake,  come  to  me.  I  am  dying. 
Oh  I" 

"Must  I  be  lost?  No!  I'll  come  to  you 
presently,"  he  said,  opening  the  door.  And  with- 
out looking  at  her  he  passed  through  the  room  to 
the  porch  where  he  used  to  chop  wood.  He  felt 
about  to  find  the  block  and  the  axe  which  were 
leaning  against  the  wall. 


50  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"  Presently!  "  he  said,  and  taking  the  axe  in  his 
right  hand,  he  laid  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
upon  the  block.  He  raised  the  axe  and  struck  at 
the  finger  below  the  second  joint.  The  finger 
flew  off  more  lightly  than  wood,  and  bounding 
up,  turned  over  on  the  edge  of  the  block  and 
then  on  to  the  floor.  Sergius  heard  that  sound 
before  he  realised  the  pain,  but  ere  he  could  re- 
cover his  senses  he  felt  a  burning  pain  and  the 
warmth  of  the  flowing  blood.  He  hastily  pressed 
the  end  of  his  cassock  to  the  maimed  finger, 
pressed  It  to  his  hip,  and  going  back  Into  her 
room  stood  before  the  woman. 

"What  do  you  want?  "  he  asked  her  In  a  low 
voice. 

She  looked  at  his  pale  face  with  its  trembling 
cheeks  and  felt  ashamed.  She  jumped  up, 
grasped  her  fur,  and  throwing  It  around  her  shoul- 
ders tucked  herself  up  In  It. 

"  I  was  in  pain  —  IVe  taken  cold  —  I  — 
Father  Sergius  —  I  — " 

He  turned  his  eyes,  which  were  shining  with  the 
quiet  light  of  joy  upon  her,  and  said, — 

"  Dear  sister,  why  have  you  desired  to  lose 
your  immortal  soul?  Temptation  must  come  into 
the  world,  but  woe  to  him  by  whom  temptation 
Cometh.     Pray  that  God  may  forgive  us  both.*' 

She  listened  and  looked  at  him.     Suddenly  she 


FATHER  SERGIUS  51 

heard  the  sound  of  something  dripping.  She 
looked  closely  and  saw  that  blood  was  dropping 
from  his  hand  on  to  his  cassock. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  your  hand?  " 

She  remembered  the  sound  she  had  heard,  and 
seizing  the  little  ikon  lamp  ran  out  to  the  porch; 
there  on  the  floor  she  saw  the  bloody  finger. 

She  returned  with  her  face  paler  than  his,  and 
wanted  to  say  something.  But  he  went  silently 
to  his  little  apartment  and  shut  the  door. 

**  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  How  can  I  atone 
for  my  sin  ?  '' 

"  Go." 

"  Let  me  bind  your  wound." 

"Go  hence." 

She  dressed  hurriedly  and  silently  and  sat  in 
her  furs  waiting. 

The  sound  of  little  bells  reached  her  from  out- 
side. 

"  Father  Sergius,  forgive  me." 

"  Go  ^ —  God  will  forgive  you." 

"  Father  Sergius,  I  will  change  my  life.  Do 
not  forsake  me." 

"  Go." 

"  Forgive  —  and  bless  me !  " 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  she  heard  from  behind  the 
door.     "  Go." 


52  FATHER  SERGIUS 

She  sobbed  and  went  out  from  the  cell. 

The  lawyer  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"  Well,''  he  said,  "  I  see  I  have  lost.  There's 
no  help  for  It.     Where  will  you  sit?  " 

"  I  don't  care." 

She  took  a  seat  In  the  sledge  and  did  not  speak 
a  word  till  they  reached  home. 

A  year  later  she  entered  a  convent  as  a  novice 
and  led  a  life  of  severe  discipline  under  the  guid- 
ance of  hermit  R who  wrote  her  letters  at 

long  intervals. 


IV 


Another  seven  years  Father  Sergius  lived  as  a 
hermit.  In  the  beginning  he  accepted  a  great 
part  of  what  people  used  to  bring  him  —  tea, 
sugar,  white  bread,  milk,  clothes,  and  wood. 

But  as  time  went  on  he  led  a  life  of  ever  greater 
austerity.  Refusing  anything  that  could  be 
thought  superfluous,  he  finally  accepted  nothing 
but  rye  bread  once  a  week.  All  that  was  brought 
to  him  he  gave  to  the  poor  who  visited  him. 

His  entire  time  was  spent  in  his  cell  in  prayer 
or  In  conversation  with  visitors  whose  number 
continually  increased. 

Father  Sergius  appeared  in  church  only  three 
times  a  year,  and  when  It  was  necessary  he  went 
out  to  fetch  water  and  wood. 

After  the  episode  with  Madame  Makovkin,  the 
change  he  effected  In  her  life,  and  her  taking  the 
veil,  the  fame  of  Father  Sergius  increased.  Vis- 
itors came  in  greater  and  greater  numbers,  and 
monks  came  to  live  in  his  neighbourhood.  A 
church  was  built  there,  and  a  hostelry.  Fame,  as 
usual,  exaggerated  his  feats.     People  came  from 

53 


54  FATHER  SERGIUS 

a  great  distance  and  began  bringing  invalids  to 
him  in  the  belief  that  he  could  heal  them. 

His  first  cure  happened  In  the  eighth  year  of 
his  seclusion.  He  actually  healed  a  boy  of  four- 
teen brought  to  him  by  his  mother  who  insisted 
on  Father  Serglus  putting  his  hand  on  the  child's 
head.  The  Idea  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  could  heal  the  sick.  He  would  have  regarded 
such  a  thought  as  a  great  sin  of  pride. 

But  the  mother  who  brought  the  boy  never 
ceased  Imploring  him,  on  her  knees. 

"Why  wouldn't  he  help  her  son  when  he 
healed  other  people?"  she  asked,  and  again  be- 
sought him  in  the  name  of  Christ. 

When  Father  Serglus  replied  that  only  God 
could  heal,  she  said  she  wanted  him  only  to  lay 
his  hands  on  his  head  and  pray. 

Father  Serglus  refused  and  went  back  to  his 
cell.  But  next  morning  —  for  this  happened  In 
the  autumn  and  the  nights  were  already  cold  — 
coming  out  of  his  cell  to  fetch  water,  he  saw  the 
same  mother  with  her  child,  the  same  boy  of 
fourteen,  and  heard  the  same  petitions. 

Father  Serglus  remembered  the  parable  of  the 
righteous  judge,  and  contrary  to  his  first  instinct 
that  he  must  indubitably  refuse,  he  began  to  pray, 
and  prayed  until  a  resolve  formed  Itself  in  his 
soul.     This  decision  was  that  he  must  accede  to 


FATHER  SERGIUS  S5 

the  woman's  request,  and  that  her  faith  was  suffi- 
cient to  save  her  child.  As  for  him,  Father  Ser- 
gius,  he  would  be  in  that  case  but  the  worthless 
instrument  chosen  by  God. 

Returning  to  the  mother.  Father  Sergius  yielded 
to  her  request,  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head  and 
prayed. 

The  mother  left  with  her  son.  In  a  month  the 
boy  was  cured,  and  the  fame  of  the  holy  healing 
power  of  "  old  Father  Sergius,"  as  he  was  called 
then,  spread  abroad.  From  that  time  not  a  week 
passed  without  sick  people  coming  to  Father  Ser- 
gius. 

Complying  with  the  requests  of  some,  he  could 
not  refuse  the  rest;  he  laid  his  hands  on  them  and 
prayed.  Many  were  healed  and  his  fame  be- 
came more  and  more  widespread. 

Having  thus  passed  seven  years  in  the  monas- 
tery and  many  years  in  the  hermitage,  he  looked 
now  like  an  old  man.  He  had  a  long  grey  beard, 
and  his  hair  had  grown  thin. 


Now  Father  Sergius  had  for  weeks  been  haunted 
by  one  relentless  thought,  whether  It  was  right  for 
him  to  have  acquiesced  In  a  state  of  things  not  so 
much  created  by  himself  as  by  the  archimandrite 
and  the  abbot. 

This  state  of  things  had  begun  after  the  heal- 
ing of  the  boy  of  fourteen.  Since  that  time  Ser- 
gius felt  that  each  passing  month,  each  week  and 
each  day,  his  inner  life  had  somehow  been  de- 
stroyed and  a  merely  external  life  had  been  sub- 
stituted for  it.  It  was  as  If  he  had  been  turned 
inside  out.  Sergius  saw  that  he  was  a  means  of 
attracting  visitors  and  patrons  to  the  monastery, 
and  that,  therefore,  the  authorities  of  the  monas- 
tery tried  to  arrange  matters  in  such  a  way  that  he 
might  be  most  profitable  to  them.  For  instance, 
he  had  no  chance  of  doing  any  work.  Everything 
was  provided  that  he  could  require,  and  the  only 
thing  they  asked  was  that  he  should  not  refuse 
his  blessing  to  the  visitors  who  came  to  seek  it. 
For  his  convenience  days  were  appointed  on  which 
he  should  receive  them.  A  reception  room  was 
arranged  for  men;  and  a  place  was  also  enclosed 

56 


FATHER  SERGIUS  57 

by  railings  in  order  that  the  crowds  of  women 
who  came  to  him  should  not  overwhelm  him,  a 
place  where  he  could  bestow  his  blessing  upon 
those  who  came. 

When  he  was  told  that  he  was  necessary  to 
men,  and  that  if  he  would  follow  the  rule  of 
Christ's  love,  he  could  not  refuse  them  when 
they  desired  to  see  him,  and  that  his  holding  aloof 
from  them  would  be  cruel,  he  could  not  but  agree. 

But  the  more  he  gave  himself  up  to  such  an 
existence  the  more  he  felt  his  inner  life  trans- 
formed into  an  external  one.  He  felt  the  fount 
of  living  water  drying  up  within  him;  and  that 
everything  he  did  now  was  performed  more  and 
more  for  man  and  less  for  God.  Whatever  he 
did,  whether  admonishing  or  simply  blessing,  or 
praying  for  the  sick,  or  giving  advice  on  the  con- 
duct of  life,  or  listening  to  expressions  of  grati- 
tude from  those  he  had  helped,  or  healed  (as  they 
say)  or  instructed  or  advised,  he  could  not  help 
feeling  a  certain  pleasure  when  they  expressed 
their  gratitude  to  him.  Neither  could  he  be  in- 
different to  the  results  of  his  activity,  nor  to  his 
influence.  He  now  thought  himself  a  shining 
light.  But  the  more  he  harboured  that  idea,  the 
more  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  divine 
light  of  truth  which  had  previously  burned  within 
him  was  flickering  and  dying. 


58  FATHER  SERGIUS 

*'  How  much  of  what  I  do  Is  done  for  God  and 
how  much  for  man?  "  That  was  the  question 
that  tormented  him.  Not  that  he  could  not  find 
an  answer  to  It,  but  he  dared  not  give  an  answer. 
He  felt  deep  down  In  his  soul  that  the  devil  had 
somehow  changed  all  his  work  for  God  Into  work 
for  man.  Because  just  as  It  had  formerly  been 
hard  for  him  to  be  torn  from  solitude,  now  soli- 
tude Itself  was  hard.  He  was  often  wearied  with 
visitors,  but  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  en- 
joyed their  presence  and  rejoiced  in  the  praise 
which  was  heaped  on  him. 

There  came  a  time  when  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  away,  to  hide.  He  even  thought  out  a 
plan.  He  got  ready  a  peasant  shirt  and  peasant 
trousers,  a  coat  and  a  cap.  He  explained  that 
he  wanted  them  to  give  to  the  poor,  and  he  kept 
these  clothes  in  his  cell,  thinking  how  he  would 
one  day  put  them  oij  and  cut  his  hair,  and  go 
away.  First  he  would  take  a  train  and  travel  for 
about  three  hundred  miles.  Then  he  would  get 
out  and  walk  from  village  to  village.  He  asked 
an  old  soldier  how  he  tramped;  If  people  gave 
alms,  and  whether  they  admitted  wayfarers  into 
their  houses.  The  soldier  told  him  where  peo- 
ple were  most  charitable,  and  where  they  would 
take  a  wanderer  in  for  the  night,  and  Father  Ser- 
glus  decided  to  act  on  his  advice.     One  night,  he 


FATHER  SERGIUS  59 

even  put  on  those  clothes  and  was  about  to  go. 
But  he  did  not  know  which  was  best,  to  remain 
or  to  run  away.  For  a  time  he  was  undecided. 
Then  the  state  of  indecision  passed.  He  grew  ac- 
customed to  the  devil  and  yielded  to  him ;  and  the 
peasant  clothes  only  served  to  remind  him  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  were  no  more. 

Crowds  flocked  to  him  Increasingly  from  day  to 
day,  and  he  had  less  and  less  time  for  prayers  and 
for  renewing  his  spiritual  strength.  Sometimes, 
In  his  brighter  moments,  he  thought  he  was  like 
a  place  where  a  brook  had  once  been.  There 
had  been  a  quiet  stream  of  living  water  which 
flowed  out  of  him  and  through  him,  he  thought. 
That  had  been  real  life,  the  time  when  she  had 
tempted  him.  He  always  thought  with  ecstasy 
of  that  night  and  of  her  who  was  now  Mother 
Agnes.  She  had  tasted  of  that  pure  water. 
Since  then  the  water  had  hardly  been  given  time 
to  collect  before  those  who  were  thirsty  arrived 
In  crowds,  pushing  one  another  aside,  and  they 
had  trodden  down  the  little  brook  until  nothing 
but  mud  was  left.  So  he  thought  in  his  clearer 
moments;  but  his  ordinary  state  of  mind  was 
weariness  and  a  sort  of  tenderness  for  himself 
because  of  that  weariness. 

It  was  spring,  the  eve  of  a  festal  day.  Father 
Serglus  celebrated  Vespers  in  the  church  in  the 


6o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

cave.  There  were  as  many  people  as  the  place 
could  hold  —  about  twenty  altogether.  They  all 
belonged  to  the  better  classes,  rich  merchants  and 
such  like.  Father  Sergius  admitted  every  one  to 
his  church,  but  a  selection  was  made  by  the  monk 
appointed  to  serve  him  and  by  a  man  on  duty 
who  was  sent  to  the  hermitage  every  day  from  the 
monastery.  A  crowd  of  about  eighty  pilgrims, 
chiefly  women,  stood  outside,  waiting  for  Father 
Sergius  to  come  out  and  bless  them.  In  that  part 
of  the  service,  when  he  went  to  the  tomb  of  his 
predecessor  to  bless  it,  he  felt  faint,  and  stag- 
gered, and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for 
a  merchant  who  served  as  deacon  who  caught 
him. 

"What  Is  the  matter  with  you?  Father  Ser- 
gius, dear  Father  Sergius !  O  God !  '*  exclaimed 
a  woman's  voice.     "  He  is  as  white  as  a  sheet!  " 

But  Father  Sergius  pulled  himself  together  and 
though  still  very  pale,  pushed  aside  the  deacon 
and  the  merchant  and  resumed  the  prayers. 
Father  Serafian,  the  deacon,  and  the  acolytes  and 
a  lady,  Sophia  Ivanovna,  who  always  lived 
close  by  the  hermitage  to  attend  on  Father 
Sergius,  begged  him  to  bring  the  service  to  an 
end. 

"  No,  there's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Father 
Sergius,  faintly  smiling  from  beneath  his  mous- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  6i 

tache  and  continuing  his  prayers.  **  Ah,  that  is 
the  way  of  saints,"  he  thought. 

"  A  holy  man  —  an  angel  of  God,"  he  heard 
Sophia  Ivanovna  and  the  merchant  who  had  sup- 
ported him  a  moment  before  murmur.  He  did 
not  heed  their  entreaties,  but  went  on  with  the 
service.  Crowding  one  another  as  before,  they 
all  filed  through  narrow  passages  back  into  the 
little  church  where  Father  Sergius  completed  ves- 
pers, merely  curtailing  the  service  a  little.  Di- 
rectly after  this,  having  pronounced  the  benedic- 
tion on  those  present,  he  sat  down  outside  on  a 
little  bench  beneath  an  elm  tree  at  the  entrance  to 
the  cave.  He  wanted  to  rest;  to  breathe  fresh 
air.  He  felt  the  need  of  it;  but  the  moment  he 
appeared,  a  crowd  of  people  rushed  to  him  so- 
liciting his  blessing,  his  advice,  and  his  help.  In 
the  crowd  was  a  number  of  women,  pilgrims  going 
from  one  holy  place  to  another,  from  one  holy 
man  to  another,  ever  in  ecstasy  before  each  sanc- 
tuary and  before  each  saint. 

Father  Sergius  knew  this  common,  cold,  irre- 
ligious, unemotional  type.  As  for  the  men  in  the 
crowd,  they  were  for  the  most  part  retired  sol- 
diers, long  unaccustomed  to  a  settled  life,  and 
most  of  them  were  poor,  drunken  old  men  who 
tramped  from  monastery  to  monastery  merely  for 
a  living.     The  dull  peasantry  also  flocked  there, 


62  FATHER  SERGIUS 

men  and  women,  with  their  selfish  requirements 
seeking  heahng  or  advice  In  their  little  daily  in- 
terests; how  their  daughters  should  be  married, 
or  a  shop  hired,  or  land  bought,  or  how  a  woman 
could  atone  for  a  child  she  had  lain  over  In  sleep 
and  killed,  or  for  a  child  she  had  borne  out  of 
wedlock. 

All  this  was  an  old  story  to  Father  Serglus  and 
did  not  interest  him.  He  knew  he  would  hear 
nothing  new  from  them.  The  spectacle  of  their 
faces  could  not  arouse  any  religious  emotion  in 
him.  But  he  liked  to  look  at  them  as  a  crowd 
which  was  in  need  of  his  benediction  and  revered 
his  words.  This  made  him  like  the  crowd,  al- 
though he  found  them  fatiguing  and  tiresome. 

Father  Serafian  began  to  disperse  the  people 
saying  that  Father  Serglus  was  weary.  But 
Father  Serglus  recollected  the  words  of  the  Gos- 
pel, "  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  me 
and  forbid  them  not,"  and  touched  at  his  recol- 
lection of  the  passage  he  permitted  them  to  ap- 
proach. He  rose,  walked  to  the  little  railing  be- 
yond which  the  crowd  had  gathered,  and  began  to 
bless  them,  but  his  answers  to  their  questions  were 
so  faint  that  he  was  moved  at  hearing  himself. 

Despite  his  wish  to  receive  them  all,  it  was 
too  much  for  him.  Everything  grew  dark  again 
before  his  eyes,  and  he  staggered  and  grasped  the 


FATHER  SERGIUS  63 

railings.  He  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  his  head, 
and  grew  pale  and  then  scarlet. 

"  I  must  leave  the  rest  till  to-morrow,  I  can  do 
no  more  now,"  he  said,  and  pronouncing  a  gen- 
eral benediction,  returned  to  the  bench. 

The  merchant  supported  him  again,  and  taking 
him  by  the  arm  assisted  him  to  be  seated.  Voices 
exclaimed  In  the  crowd, — 

*'  Father,  dear  father,  don't  forsake  us.  We 
are  lost  without  you." 

The  merchant,  having  helped  Father  Serglus 
to  the  bench  under  the  elm  tree,  took  upon  him- 
self the  duties  of  policeman  and  began  energet- 
ically to  disperse  the  crowd.  It  was  true  he  spoke 
in  a  low  voice  so  that  Father  Serglus  could  not 
overhear,  but  he  spoke  very  decidedly  and  in  an 
angry  tone. 

"  Get  away,  get  away,  I  say !  He  has  blessed 
you.  What  else  do  you  want?  Get  along!  or 
you'll  catch  it.  Move  on  there  I  Get  along 
there,  old  woman,  with  your  dirty  rags.  Go  on  I 
Where  do  you  think  youWe  going;  I  told  you  It 
was  finished.  To-morrow's  coming,  but  to-day 
he's  done,  I  tell  you!  " 

*'  Dear  father !  I  only  want  to  look  on  his 
dear  face  with  my  own  little  eyes,"  said  an  old 
woman. 

"  Little  eyes  indeed!     You  don't  get  in  here!  " 


64  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Father  Sergius  noticed  that  the  merchant  was 
doing  It  rather  too  thoroughly,  and  spoke  to  his 
attendant  saying  the  crowd  was  not  to  be  turned 
away.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  crowd 
would  be  dispersed  all  the  same,  and  he  desired 
to  remain  alone  and  rest,  but  he  sent  his  attendant 
with  the  order  merely  to  make  an  Impression. 

*' Well  —  well  —  Fm  not  turning  them  away; 
Fm  only  talking  to  them,"  answered  the  merchant. 
"  They'll  drive  the  man  to  death.  They  have  no 
mercy.  They're  only  thinking  of  themselves. 
No,  I  say !  Get  away !  To-morrow  I  "  and  he 
drove  them  all  away. 

The  merchant  took  all  this  trouble  because  he 
loved  order  and  liked  to  turn  people  away  and 
abuse  them;  but  more  because  he  wanted  to  have 
Father  Sergius  to  himself.  He  was  a  widower 
and  had  an  only  daughter,  an  invalid  and  unmar- 
ried. He  had  brought  her  fourteen  hundred 
miles  to  Father  Sergius  to  be  healed.  During  the 
two  years  of  the  girl's  Illness  he  had  taken  her  to 
various  cures.  First  to  the  university  clinic  in 
the  principal  town  of  the  province,  but  this  was 
not  of  much  use;  then  to  a  peasant  in  the  prov- 
ince of  Samara,  who  did  her  a  little  good.  After- 
wards he  took  her  to  a  doctor  In  Moscow  and 
paid  him  a  huge  fee ;  but  this  did  not  help  at  all. 
Then  he  was  told  that  Father  Sergius  wrought 


FATHER  SERGIUS  6s 

cures,  so  he  brought  her  to  him.  Consequently 
when  he  had  scattered  the  crowd  he  approached 
Father  Sergius,  and  falling  upon  his  knees  with- 
out any  warning,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice, — 

"Holy  Father!  Bless  my  afflicted  child  and 
heal  her  of  her  sufferings.  I  venture  to  pros- 
trate myself  at  your  holy  feet,'*  and  he  put  one 
hand  on  another,  palms  up,  cup-wise.  All  this 
he  did  as  if  it  were  something  distinctly  and  rig- 
idly appointed  by  law  and  usage;  as  if  it  were 
the  sole  and  precise  method  by  which  a  man 
should  request  the  healing  of  his  daughter.  He 
did  it  with  such  conviction  that  even  Sergius  felt 
for  the  moment  that  that  was  just  the  right  way. 
However  he  bade  him  rise  from  his  knees  and 
tell  him  what  the  trouble  was.  The  merchant 
said  that  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  twenty-two,  had 
fallen  ill  two  years  before,  after  the  sudden  death 
of  her  mother.  She  just  said  "  Ah !  "  as  he  put 
It,  and  went  out  of  her  mind.  He  had  brought 
her  fourteen  hundred  miles,  and  she  was  waiting 
in  the  hostelry  till  Father  Sergius  could  receive 
her.  She  never  went  out  by  day,  being  afraid 
of  the  sunlight,  but  only  after  dusk. 

"  Is  she  very  weak?  "  asked  Father  Sergius. 

"  No,  she  has  no  special  weakness,  but  she's 
rather  stout,  and  the  doctor  says  she's  neuras- 
thenic.    If  you  will  just  let  me  fetch  her,  Father 


66  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Sergius,  I'll  be  back  with  her  in  a  minute.  Re- 
vive, O  holy  father,  the  heart  of  a  parent,  restore 
his  line,  and  save  my  afflicted  offspring  with  your 
prayers !  "  and  the  merchant  fell  down  on  his 
knees  again  and  bending  sideways  with  his  head 
over  his  palms,  which  appeared  to  hold  little  heaps 
of  something,  remained  like  a  figure  In  stone. 
Father  Sergius  again  told  him  to  get  up,  and 
thinking  once  more  how  trying  his  work  was,  and 
how  patiently  he  bore  It  In  spite  of  everything, 
sighed  heavily.  After  a  few  moments*  silence, 
he  said: 

**Well,  bring  her  to-night.  I  will  pray  over 
her.  But  now  I  am  weary,"  and  he  closed  his 
eyes.     "  I  will  send  for  you." 

The  merchant  went  away,  stepping  on  tiptoe, 
which  made  his  boots  creak  still  louder,  and 
Father  Sergius  remained  alone. 

Father  Sergius's  life  was  filled  with  church 
services  and  with  visitors;  but  this  day  was  par- 
ticularly difficult.  In  the  morning  an  Important 
official  had  come  to  hold  a  long  conference  with 
him.  Then  a  lady  came  with  her  son.  The  son 
was  a  young  professor,  an  unbeliever,  and  his 
mother,  who  was  ardently  religious  and  devoted 
to  Father  Sergius,  brought  him  to  Father  Sergius 
that  he  might  talk  to  him.  The  talk  was  very 
trying.     The  young  man  evidently  did  not  wish 


FATHER  SERGIUS  67 

to  have  a  discussion  with  the  monk,  and  just 
agreed  with  him  In  everything,  as  with  an  In- 
ferior. Father  Serglus  saw  that  the  youth  was 
an  Infidel,  but  that  he  had  nevertheless  a  clear  and 
tranquil  conscience.  The  memory  of  the  conver- 
sation was  now  unpleasant  to  him. 

"Won't  you  eat  something.  Father  Sergius?" 
asked  the  attendant. 

"  Very  well  —  bring  me  something." 

The  attendant  went  to  a  little  hut  built  ten 
paces  from  the  cave,  and  Father  Serglus  remained 
alone. 

The  time  was  long  past  when  Father  Serglus 
lived  alone,  doing  everything  for  himself  and 
having  but  a  holy  wafer  and  bread  for  nourish- 
ment. He  had  been  warned  long  ago  that  he 
had  no  right  to  be  careless  of  his  health  and  he 
was  given  wholesome  meals,  although  of  Lenten 
quality.  He  did  not  eat  much,  but  more  than  he 
had  done;  and  sometimes  he  even  felt  a  pleasure 
in  eating;  the  disgust  and  the  sense  of  sin  he  had 
experienced  before  was  gone. 

He  took  some  gruel  and  had  a  cup  of  tea  with 
half  a  roll  of  white  bread.  The  attendant  went 
away  while  he  remained  alone  on  the  bench  under 
the  elm-tree.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  May. 
The  leaves  of  the  birches,  the  aspens,  the  elms, 
the  alder  bushes,  and  the  oaks  were  just  beginning 


68  FATHER  SERGIUS 

to  blossom.  The  alder  bushes  behind  the  elms 
were  still  In  full  bloom.  A  nightingale  was  sing- 
ing near  at  hand,  and  two  or  three  more  in  the 
bushes  down  by  the  river  trilled  and  warbled. 
From  the  river  came  the  songs  of  working-men, 
perhaps  on  their  way  home  from  their  labour. 
The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  forest  and  was 
throwing  little  broken  rays  of  light  among  the 
leaves.  This  side  was  bright  green  and  the  other 
side  was  dark.  Beetles  were  flying  about  and, 
colliding  together,  were  falling  to  the  ground. 
After  supper  Father  Sergius  began  to  repeat  a 
prayer  mentally: 

*'  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  ^  God,  have 
mercy  on  us,"  and  then  he  read  a  psalm.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  middle  of  the  psalm  a  sparrow  flew 
out  from  a  bush  on  the  ground,  and  hopping 
along,  came  to  him ;  then  it  flew  away  f rightenedc 
He  was  reading  a  prayer  that  bore  upon  renun- 
ciation of  the  world  and  hastened  to  get  to  the 
end  of  it  in  order  that  he  might  send  for  the  mer- 
chant and  his  daughter.  He  was  interested  in 
the  daughter  because  she  offered  a  sort  of  diver- 
sion, and  also  because  she  and  her  father  thought 
him  a  saint,  a  saint  whose  prayer  was  efficacious. 
He  repudiated  the  Idea,  but  in  the  depths  of  his 
soul  he  nevertheless  concurred.     He  often  won- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  69 

dered  how  he,  Serglus  Kasatsky,  had  contrived  to 
become  such  an  extraordinary  saint  and  worker  of 
miracles,  but  that  it  was  a  fact  he  did  not  doubt. 
He  could  not  fail  to  believe  in  the  miracles  he 
saw  with  his  own  eyes,  beginning  with  the  sick  boy 
and  ending  with  this  last  old  woman  who  had  re- 
covered her  sight  through  his  prayers.  Strange 
as  it  was,  it  was  a  fact.  Accordingly  the  mer- 
chant's daughter  interested  him  as  a  new  individ- 
ual that  had  faith  in  him,  and  besides,  as  an 
occasion  of  bearing  witness  to  his  healing  power 
and  to  his  fame. 

"  People  come  thousands  of  miles.  Papers 
talk  about  it.  The  emperor  knows.  All  Europe 
knows  —  all  godless  Europe."  And  then  he  felt 
ashamed  of  his  vanity  and  began  to  pray: 

"  God,  King  of  Heaven,  Comforter,  True  Soul, 
come  into  —  inspire  me  —  and  cleanse  me  from 
all  sin,  and  save,  O  All-merciful,  my  soul. 
Cleanse  me  from  the  sin  of  worldly  vanity  that 
has  overtaken  me,'*  he  said,  remembering  how 
often  he  had  made  that  prayer  and  how  vain  it 
had  been.  His  prayers  worked  miracles  for 
others,  but  as  for  himself  God  had  not  granted 
him  strength  to  conquer  this  petty  passion.  He 
remembered  his  prayers  at  the  commencement  of 
his  seclusion  when  he  asked  for  the  grace  of  pur- 


70  FATHER  SERGIUS 

ity,  humility,  and  love,  and  how  it  seemed  to 
him  at  that  time  that  God  heard  his  prayers.  He 
had  retained  his  purity  and  had  hev/n  off  his  fin- 
ger. He  raised  the  stump  of  the  finger  with  folds 
of  skin  on  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it.  It  seemed 
to  him  now,  that  at  that  time  when  he  had  been 
filled  with  disgust  at  his  own  sinfulness,  he  had 
been  humble;  and  that  he  had  also  possessed  love. 
He  recalled  also  the  tender  feelings  with  which 
he  had  received  the  old  drunken  soldier  who  had 
come  to  ask  alms  of  him ;  and  how  he  had  received 
her.  And  now;  he  asked  himself  whether  he 
loved  anybody;  whether  he  loved  Sophia  Ivan- 
ovna  or  Father  Serafian;  whether  he  had  any  feel- 
ing of  love  for  those  who  had  come  to  him  that 
day.  He  asked  himself  if  he  had  felt  any  love 
toward  the  learned  young  man  with  whom  he  had 
held  that  instructive  discussion  with  the  object 
only  of  showing  off  his  own  Intelligence  and  prov- 
ing that  he  had  not  fallen  behind  in  knowledge. 

He  wanted  love  from  them,  and  rejoiced  In  It; 
but  felt  no  love  himself  for  them.  Now  he  had 
neither  love  nor  humility.  He  was  pleased  to 
hear  that  the  merchant's  daughter  was  twenty- 
two,  and  was  anxious  to  know  if  she  was  good- 
looking.  When  he  inquired  If  she  was  weak,  he 
only  wanted  to  know  If  she  had  feminine  charm. 
"Is  It   true   that  I   have   fallen   so   low?"    he 


FATHER  SERGIUS  71 

thought.  "  God  help  me  I  Restore  my  strength 
' — restore  me,  O  God  my  Saviour  1**  and  he 
clasped  his  hands  and  began  to  pray. 

The  nightingales  sang,  a  beetle  flew  at  him  and 
crept  along  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  brushed  it 
away. 

"  But  does  He  exist?  What  if  I  am  knocking 
at  a  house  which  is  locked  from  without.  The  bar 
is  on  the  door,  and  we  can  see  it.  Nightingales, 
beetles,  nature  are  the  bar  to  our  understanding. 
That  young  man  was  perhaps  right."  He  began 
to  pray  aloud,  and  prayed  long,  till  all  these 
thoughts  disappeared  and  he  became  calm  and 
firm  in  the  faith.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the 
attendant  to  say  that  the  merchant  might  now 
come  with  his  daughter. 

The  merchant  came,  leading  his  daughter  by 
the  arm,  and  brought  her  to  the  cell,  where  he 
left  her. 

The  daughter  was  pale,  with  fair  hair.  She 
was  very  short,  and  had  a  frightened,  childish 
face  and  full  figure.  Father  Sergius  remained 
seated  on  the  bench  at  the  entrance.  When  the 
girl  passed  him  and  stood  near  him  he  blessed 
her,  feeling  aghast  because  of  the  way  in  which 
he  looked  at  her  figure.  As  she  passed  by  him, 
he  felt  a  sting.  He  saw  by  her  face  that  she  was 
sensual  and  feeble  minded.     He  rose  and  entered 


72  FATHER  SERGIUS 

his  cell.  She  was  sitting  on  a  stool  waiting  for 
him,  and  when  he  entered  she  rose. 

"  I  want  to  go  back  to  my  papa,"  she  said. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  Where  do  you 
feel  pain?" 

"  I  feel  pain  all  over,"  she  answered,  and  sud- 
denly her  face  brightened  with  a  smile. 

"You  will  regain  your  health,"  he  said. 
"  Pray." 

"What's  the  use?  I!ve  prayed.  It  doesn't 
help,"  and  she  continued  smiling,  "  I  wish  you 
would  pray  and  lay  your  hands  on  me.  I  saw 
you  in  a  dream." 

"How  so?" 

"  I  saw  you  put  your  hand  on  my  chest." 

She  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  breast. 

"  Here." 

He  yielded  his  right  hand  to  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked,  his  whole 
body  shaking,  and  feeling  that  he  was  overcome 
and  could  not  control  his  instinct. 

"Marie,  why?" 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  then 
put  her  arm  around  his  waist  and  pressed 
him. 

"Marie,  wfiat  are  you  doing?"  he  said. 
"  You  are  a  devil,  Marie  I  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps.     Never  mind." 


FATHER  SERGIUS  73 

And  embracing  him,  she  sat  down  at  his  side 
on  the  bed. 

At  dawn  he  went  out  of  the  door.  Had  all 
this  really  happened?  Her  father  would  come. 
She  would  tell.  "  She's  a  devil.  But  what  have 
/  done?  Oh,  there  Is  the  axe  which  I  used  to 
chop  off  my  finger.'' 

He  took  the  axe  and  went  back  to  the  cell. 

The  attendant  came  toward  him.  "  Do  you 
want  some  wood  cut?     Give  me  the  axe." 

He  gave  him  the  axe,  and  entered  the  cell. 
She  lay  asleep.  He  looked  on  her  with  horror. 
Going  back  Into  the  cell  he  put  on  the  peasant 
clothes,  seized  the  scissors,  cut  his  hair,  and  then. 
Issuing  forth,  took  the  path  down  the  hill  to  the 
river,  where  he  had  not  been  for  four  years. 

The  road  ran  along  the  river.  He  went  by  it, 
walking  till  noon.  Then  he  went  into  a  cornfield 
and  lay  among  the  corn.  Toward  evening  he  ap- 
proached a  village,  but  did  not  enter  It.  He 
went  again  to  the  river,  to  a  cliff. 

It  was  early  morning,  half  an  hour  before  sun- 
rise. All  was  grey  and  mournful  around  him, 
and  a  cold,  early  morning  wind  blew  from  the 
west. 

"  I  must  end  it  all.  There  is  no  God.  How 
can  I  do  it?     Throw  myself  in!     I  can  swim; 


74  FATHER  SERGIUS 

I  should  not  drown.  Hang  myself?  Yes;  just 
with  this  belt,  to  a  branch." 

This  seemed  so  feasible  and  so  easy  that  he 
wanted  to  pray,  as  he  always  did  in  moments  of 
distress.  But  there  was  nothing  to  pray  to.  God 
was  not.  He  dropped  down  on  his  elbow,  and 
such  a  longing  for  sleep  Instantly  overcame  him 
that  he  couldn't  hold  his  head  up  with  his  arm 
any  longer.  Stretching  out  his  arm,  he  laid  his 
head  upon  It  and  went  to  sleep.  But  this  sleep 
lasted  only  a  moment.  He  woke  at  once,  and 
what  followed  was  half  dream  and  half  recol- 
lection. 

He  saw  himself  as  a  child  in  the  house  of  his 
mother  in  the  country.  A  carriage  was  approach- 
ing, and  out  of  It  stepped  Uncle  Nicholas  Sergel- 
vich,  with  a  long  black  beard  like  a  spade,  and 
with  him  a  slender  girl,  Pashinka,  with  large  soft 
eyes  and  a  timid,  pathetic  little  face.  This  girl 
was  taken  to  the  place  where  the  boys  were  play- 
ing, and  they  were  forced  to  play  with  her,  which 
was  very  tedious  Indeed.  She  was  a  silly  little 
girl,  and  It  ended  in  their  making  fun  of  her,  and 
making  her  show  them  how  she  swam.  She  lay 
down  on  the  floor  and  went  through  the  motions. 
They  laughed  and  turned  her  Into  ridicule ;  which, 
when  she  became  aware  of  It,  made  her  blush  In 
patches.     She   looked    so   piteous    that   his   con- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  75 

science  pricked  him,  and  he  could  never  forget 
her  kind,  submissive,  tremulous  smile.  Sergius 
remembered  how  he  had  seen  her  since  then.  A 
long  time  ago,  just  before  he  became  a  monk,  she 
had  married  a  landowner  who  had  squandered  all 
her  fortune,  and  who  beat  her.  She  had  two  chil- 
dren, a  son  and  a  daughter ;  but  the  son  died  when 
he  was  little,  and  Sergius  remembered  seeing  her 
very  wretched  after  that,  and  then  again  at  the 
monastery,  when  she  was  a  widow.  She  was  still 
just  the  same,  not  exactly  stupid,  but  insipid,  in- 
significant, and  piteous.  She  had  come  with  her 
daughter  and  her  daughter's  fiance.  They  were 
poor  at  that  time,  and  later  on  he  heard  that  she 
was  living  in  a  little  provincial  town  and  was  al- 
most destitute. 

"Why  does  she  come  into  my  head?"  he 
asked  himself,  but  still  he  could  not  help  thinking 
about  her.  "Where  is  she?  What  has  become 
of  her?  Is  she  as  unhappy  as  she  was  when  she 
had  to  show  us  how  she  swam  on  the  floor?  But 
what's  the  use  of  my  thinking  of  her  now?  My 
business  is  to  put  an  end  to  myself." 

Again  he  was  afraid,  and  again,  in  order  to 
spare  himself,  he  began  to  think  about  her.  Thus 
he  lay  a  long  time,  thinking  now  of  his  extraor- 
dinary end,  now  of  Pashinka.  She  seemed  some- 
how the  means  of  his  salvation.     At  last  he  fell 


76  FATHER  SERGIUS 

asleep,  and  in  his  dream  he  saw  an  angel,  who 
came  to  him  and  said :  — 

"  Go  to  Pashinka.  Find  out  what  you  have  to 
do,  and  what  your  sin  is,  and  what  Is  your  way 
of  salvation." 

He  awoke,  convinced  that  this  was  a  vision 
from  on  high.  He  rejoiced,  and  resolved  to  do 
as  he  was  told  in  the  dream.  He  knew  the  town 
where  she  lived,  three  hundred  miles  away,  so  he 
walked  to  that  place. 


VI 


Pashinka  was  no  longer  Pashinka.  She  had  be- 
come Praskovia  Mikhailovna,  old,  wrinkled,  and 
shrivelled,  the  mother-in-law  of  a  drunken  offi- 
cial, Mavrikiev  —  a  failure.  She  lived  in  the  lit- 
tle provincial  town  where  he  had  occupied  his  last 
position,  and  had  supported  the  family:  a  daugh- 
ter, a  nervous,  ailing  husband,  and  five  grand- 
children. Her  sole  means  of  supporting  them 
was  by  giving  music  lessons  to  the  daughters  of 
merchants  for  fifty  kopeks  an  hour.  She  had 
sometimes  four,  sometimes  five  lessons  a  day,  and 
earned  about  sixty  roubles  a  month.  They  all 
lived  for  the  moment  on  that  in  expectation  of  an- 
other situation.  She  had  sent  letters  to  all  her 
friends  and  relations,  asking  for  a  post  for  her 
son-in-law,  and  had  also  written  to  Sergius,  but 
the  letter  had  never  reached  him. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Praskovia  Mikhailovna 
was  kneading  dough  for  currant  bread  such  as  the 
cook,  a  serf  on  her  father's  estate,  used  to  make, 
for  she  wanted  to  give  her  grandchildren  a  treat 
on  Sunday. 

77 


78  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Her  daughter  Masha  y/as  looking  after  her 
youngest  child,  and  the  eldest  boy  and  girl  were 
at  school.  As  for  her  husband,  he  had  not  slept 
that  night,  and  was  now  asleep.  Praskovia  Mik- 
hailovna  had  not  slept  well  either,  trying  to  ap- 
pease her  daughter's  anger  against  her  hus- 
band. 

She  saw  that  her  son-in-law,  being  a  weak 
character,  could  not  talk  or  act  differently,  and 
she  perceived  that  the  reproaches  of  his  wife 
availed  nothing.  All  her  energies  were  employed 
in  softening  these  reproaches.  She  did  not  want 
harsh  feelings  and  resentment  to  exist.  Physi- 
cally she  could  not  stand  a  condition  of  ill-will. 
It  was  clear  to  her  that  bitter  feelings  did  not 
mend  matters,  but  simply  made  them  worse.  She 
did  not  think  about  it.  Seeing  anger  made  her 
suffer  precisely  as  a  bad  odour  or  a  shrill  sound  or 
a  blow. 

She  was  just  showing  Lucaria,  the  servant,  how 
to  mix  the  dough  when  her  grandson,  Misha,  a 
boy  six  years  old,  with  little  crooked  legs  In  darned 
stockings,  ran  Into  the  kitchen  looking  frightened. 

*'  Grandmother,  a  dreadful  old  man  wants  to 
see  you !  " 

Lucaria  looked  out  of  the  door. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  It's  a  pilgrim." 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  wiped  her  thin  elbows 


FATHER  SERGIUS  79 

with  her  hands,  and  then  her  hands  on  her  apron, 
and  was  about  to  go  into  the  room  to  get  five 
kopeks  out  of  her  purse,  when  she  remembered 
that  she  had  only  a  ten  kopek  piece,  so,  deciding 
to  give  bread  instead,  she  turned  to  the  cupboard. 
But  then  she  blushed  at  the  thought  of  having 
grudged  him  alms,  and  ordering  Lucaria  to  cut  a 
slice  of  bread,  went  to  fetch  the  ten  kopeks. 
*'  That  serves  you  right,''  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Now  you  must  give  twice  as  much." 

She  gave  both  bread  and  money  to  the  pilgrim 
with  apologies,  and  in  doing  so  she  was  not  at  all 
proud  of  her  generosity.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  ashamed  of  having  given  so  little.  The  man 
had  such  an  imposing  appearance. 

In  spite  of  having  tramped  three  hundred  miles, 
begging  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  being  nearly 
in  rags ;  in  spite  of  having  grown  thin  and  weath- 
er-beaten, and  having  his  hair  cut,  and  wearing 
a  peasant  cap  and  boots ;  In  spite,  also,  of  his  bow- 
ing with  great  humility,  Sergius  had  the  same  im- 
pressive appearance  which  had  attracted  every  one 
to  him.  Praskovia  Mikhailovna  did  not  recog- 
nise him.  How  could  she,  not  having  seen  him 
for  many  years? 

"  Excuse  this  humble  gift,  father.  Wouldn't 
you  like  something  to  eat?" 

He  took  the  bread  and  money,  and  Praskovia 


8o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Mikhailovna  was  astonished  that  he  did  not  go, 
but  stood  looking  at  her. 

"  Pashlnka,  I  have  come  to  you.  Won't  you 
take  me  In?  '' 

His  beautiful  black  eyes  looked  at  her  intently, 
Imploringly,  and  shone,  tears  starting;  and  his 
lips  quivered  painfully  under  the  grey  moustache. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
shrivelled  breast,  opened  her  mouth,  and  stared  at 
the  pilgrim  with  dilated  eyes. 

"It  can't  be  possible!  Steph  —  Serglus  — 
Father  Serglus !  " 

"  Yes,  It  Is  I,"  said  Serglus  in  a  low  voice. 
**  But  no  longer  Serglus  or  Father  Serglus,  but  a 
great  sinner,  Stephen  Kasatsky  —  a  great  sinner, 
a  lost  sinner.     Take  me  in  —  help  me." 

"  No,  It  can't  be  possible  I  Such  great  humil- 
ity I  Come?"  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  but 
he  did  not  take  it.     He  only  followed  her. 

But  where  could  she  lead  him  ?  They  had  very 
little  space.  She  had  a  tiny  little  room  for  her- 
self, hardly  more  than  a  closet,  but  even  that 
she  had  given  up  to  her  daughter,  and  now 
Masha  was  sitting  there  rocking  the  baby  to 
sleep. 

"  Please,  be  seated  here,"  she  said  to  Serglus, 
pointing  to  a  bench  In  the  kitchen.  He  sat  down 
at  once,  and  took  off,  with  an  evidently  accustomed 


FATHER  SERGIUS  8i 

action,  the  straps  of  his  wallet  first  from  one  shoul- 
der and  then  from  the  other. 

"Heavens!  What  humility!  What  an  hon- 
our, and  now  — '' 

Serglus  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  meekly,  lay- 
ing his  wallet  on  one  side. 

"  Masha,  do  you  know  who  this  is?"  And 
Praskovia  Mikhailovna  told  her  daughter  in  a 
whisper.  They  took  the  bed  and  the  cradle  out 
of  the  little  room>  and  made  it  ready  for  Serglus. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  led  him  In. 

*'  Now  have  a  rest.  Excuse  this  humble  room. 
I  must  go." 

"Where?" 

"  I  have  lessons.     Fm  ashamed  to  say  I  teach 


music." 


(( 


Music!  That  is  well.  But  just  one  thing, 
Praskovia  Mikhailovna.  I  came  to  you  with  an 
object.     Could  I  have  a  talk  with  you?  " 

"  I  shall  be  happy.     Will  this  evening  do?  " 
"  It  will.     One  thing  more.     Do  not  say  who  I 
am.     I  have  only  revealed  myself  to  you.     No 
one    knows   where    I    went,    and   no    one    need 
know." 

"  Oh,  but  I  told  my  daughter  — " 
**  Well,  ask  her  not  to  tell  any  one." 
Serglus  took  off  his  boots  and  slept  after  a 
sleepless  night  and  a  forty-mile  tramp. 


82  FATHER  SERGIUS 

When  Praskovia  Mikhailovna  returned  Serglus 
was  sitting  In  the  little  room  waiting  for  her. 
He  had  not  come  out  for  dinner,  but  had  some 
soup  and  gruel  which  Lucaria  brought  In  to  him. 

"  Why  did  you  return  earlier  than  you  said?  " 
asked  Father  Serglus.  *'  May  I  speak  to  you 
now?  " 

"  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  the  happiness 
of  having  such  a  guest!  I  only  missed  one  les- 
son. That  can  wait.  I  have  dreamed  for  a  long 
time  of  going  to  see  you.  I  wrote  to  you.  And 
now  this  good  fortune !  " 

*'  Pashlnka,  please  —  listen  to  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you,  as  If  It  were  a  confession;  as  if  it  were 
something  I  should  say  to  God  In  the  hour  of 
death.  Pashlnka,  I  am  not  a  holy  man.  I  am 
a  vile  and  loathsome  sinner.  I  have  gone 
astray  through  pride,  and  I  am  the  vilest  of  the 
vile." 

Pashlnka  stared  at  him.  She  believed  what  he 
said.  Then,  when  she  had  quite  taken  it  In,  she 
touched  his  hand  and  smiled  sadly,  and  said, — 

"  Stevie,  perhaps  you  exaggerate." 

"  No,  Pashlnka,  I  am  an  adulterer,  a  murderer, 
a  blasphemer,  a  cheat." 

"My  God,  what  does  he  mean?"  she  mut- 
tered. 

"  But  I  must  go  on  living.     I,  who  thought  I 


FATHER  SERGIUS  83 

knew  everything,  who  taught  others  how  to  live, 
I  know  nothing.     I  ask  you  to  teach  me." 

"O  Steviel  You  are  laughing  at  me.  Why 
do  you  always  laugh  at  me  ?  ** 

"  Very  well ;  have  it  as  you  will  that  I  am 
laughing  at  you.  Still,  tell  me  how  you  live,  and 
how  you  have  lived  your  life." 

"I?  But  I've  lived  a  very  bad  life,  the  worst 
life  possible.  Now  God  is  punishing  me,  and  I 
deserve  it.  And  I  am  so  miserable  now  —  so 
miserable !  " 

"  And  your  marriage  —  how  did  you  get  on?  " 

"  It  was  all  bad.  I  married  because  I  fell  in 
love  from  low  motives.  Father  didn't  want  me 
to,  but  I  wouldn't  listen  to  anything.  I  just  mar- 
ried. And  then,  instead  of  helping  my  husband, 
I  made  him  wretched  by  my  jealousy,  which  I 
couldn't  overcome." 

"  He  drank,  I  heard." 

"  Well,  but  I  didn't  give  him  any  peace.  I  re- 
proached him.  That's  a  disease.  He  couldn't 
stop  it.  I  remember  now  how  I  took  his  drink 
away  from  him.  We  had  such  frightful  scenes !  " 
She  looked  at  Kasatsky  with  pain  in  her  beauti- 
ful eyes  at  the  recollection. 

Kasatsky  called  to  mind  that  he  had  been  told 
that  her  husband  beat  Pashinka,  and  looking  at 
her  thin  withered  neck  with  veins  standing  out 


84  FATHER  SERGIUS 

behind  her  ears,  the  thin  coll  of  hair,  half  grey, 
half  auburn,  he  saw  it  all  just  as  it  happened. 

"  Then  I  was  left  alone  with  two  children,  and 
with  no  means.'' 

"  But  you  had  an  estate !  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  sold  when  Vasily  was  alive. 
And  the  money  was  —  spent.  We  had  to  live, 
and  I  didn't  know  how  to  work  —  like  all  the 
young  ladles  of  that  time.  I  was  worse  than  the 
rest  —  quite  helpless.  So  we  spent  everything  we 
had.  I  taught  the  children.  Masha  had  learnt 
something.  Then  Mlsha  fell  111  when  he  was  in 
the  fourth  class  in  the  school,  and  God  took  him. 
Masha  fell  in  love  with  Vania,  my  son-in-law. 
He's  a  good  man  but  very  unfortunate.  He's 
ill." 

"  Mother,"  interrupted  her  daughter,  "  take 
Mlsha.     I  can't  be  everywhere." 

Praskovia  Mikhallovna  started,  rose,  and  step- 
ping quickly  in  her  worn  shoes,  went  out  of  the 
room  and  came  back  with  a  boy  of  two  in  her 
arms.  The  child  was  throwing  himself  back- 
wards and  grabbing  at  her  shawl. 

"Where  was  I?  Yes  —  he  had  a  very  good 
post  here,  and  such  a  good  chief,  too.  But  poor 
Vania  couldn't  go  on,  and  he  had  to  give  up  his 
position." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 


FATHER  SERGIUS  85 

"  Neurasthenia.  It's  such  a  horrid  illness. 
We  have  been  to  the  doctor,  but  he  ought  to  go 
away,  and  we  can't  afford  it.  Still,  I  hope  it  will 
pass.     He  doesn't  suffer  much  pain,  but  — ^" 

"  Lucaria  I  "  said  a  feeble  and  angry  voice. 
"  She's  always  sent  out  when  I  need  her. 
Mother!" 

**  I'm  coming,"  said  Praskovia  Mikhailovna, 
again  interrupting  her  conversation.  "  You  see, 
he  hasn't  had  his  dinner  yet.     He  can't  eat  with 


us." 


She  went  out  and  arranged  something,  and 
came  back,  wiping  her  thin,  dark  hands. 

"  Well,  this  is  the  way  I  live.  I  complain,  and 
I'm  not  satisfied,  but,  thank  God,  all  my  grand- 
children are  such  nice  healthy  children,  and  life  is 
quite  bearable.  But  why  am  I  talking  about  my- 
self?" 

"  What  do  you  live  on?  " 

"Why,  I  earn  a  little.  How  I  used  to  hate 
music !  and  now  it's  so  useful  to  me !  " 

Her  small  hand  lay  on  the  chest  of  drawers  that 
stood  beside  her  where  she  was  sitting,  and  she 
drummed  exercises  with  her  thin  fingers. 

"  How  much  are  you  paid  for  your  lessons?  " 

"  Sometimes  a  rouble,  sometimes  fifty  kopeks, 
and  sometimes  thirty.     They  are  all  so  kind  to 


me. 


86  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"And  do  your  pupils  get  on  well?*'  asked 
Kasatsky,  smiling  faintly  with  his  eyes. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  did  not  believe  at  first 
that  he  was  asking  ker  seriously,  and  looked  In- 
quiringly Into  his  eyes. 

*'  Some  of  them  do,"  she  said.  "  I  have  one 
very  nice  pupil  —  the  butcher's  daughter.  Such 
a  good,  kind  girl.  If  I  were  a  clever  woman  I 
could  surely  use  my  father's  Influence  and  get  a 
position  for  my  son-in-law.  But  It  Is  my  fault 
they  are  so  badly  off.     1  brought  them  to  It." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Kasatsky,  dropping  his  head. 
**  Well,  Pashlnka,  and  what  about  your  attitude  to 
the  church?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it!  I'm  so  bad  that  way. 
I  have  neglected  It  so!  When  the  children  have 
to  go,  I  fast  and  go  to  communion  with  them,  but 
as  for  the  rest  of  the  time  I  often  do  not  go  for  a 
month.     I  just  send  them." 

**  And  why  don't  you  go?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth  — "  she  blushed  — **  I'm 
ashamed  for  Masha's  sake  and  the  children's  to 
go  in  my  old  clothes.  And  I  haven't  anything 
else.     Besides,  I'm  just  lazy." 

"  And  do  you  pray  at  home?  " 

"  I  do,  but  It's  just  a  mechanical  sort  of  praying. 
I  know  It's  wrong,  but  I  have  no  real  religious 
feeling.     I  only  know  I'm  wicked  —  that's  all." 


FATHER  SERGIUS  87 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  right,  that's  right  I"  said 
Kasatsky,  as  if  in  approval. 

"I'm  coming  —  I'm  coming!"  she  called,  In 
answer  to  her  son-in-law,  and,  tidying  her  hair, 
went  to  the  other  room. 

This  time  she  was  absent  a  long  while.  When 
she  returned,  Kasatsky  was  sitting  In  the  same 
position,  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  head  down. 
But  his  wallet  was  ready  strapped  on  his  back. 

When  she  came  In  with  a  little  tin  lamp  without 
a  shade,  he  raised  his  beautiful,  weary  eyes,  and 
sighed  deeply. 

"  I  didn't  tell  them  who  you  were,"  she  began 
shyly.  *'  I  just  said  you  were  a  pilgrim  —  a  no- 
bleman—  and  that  I  used  to  know  you.  Won't 
you  come  Into  the  dining-room  and  have  tea?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  I'll  bring  some  In  to  you  here." 

*'  No ;  I  don't  want  anything.  God  bless  you, 
Pashinka.  I  am  going  now.  If  you  have  any 
pity  for  me,  don't  tell  any  one  you  have  seen  me. 
For  the  love  of  God,  tell  no  one.  I  thank  you. 
I  would  kneel  down  before  you,  but  I  know  it 
would  only  make  you  feel  awkward.  Forgive  me, 
for  Christ's  sake." 

*'  Give  me  your  blessing." 

"  God  bless  you.  Forgive  me,  for  Christ's 
sake." 


88  FATHER  SERGIUS 

He  rose  to  go,  but  she  restrained  him  and 
brought  him  some  bread  and  butter,  which  he  took 
and  departed. 

It  was  dark,  and  he  had  hardly  passed  the 
second  house  when  he  was  lost  to  sight,  and  she 
only  knew  he  was  there  because  the  dog  at  the 
priest's  house  was  barking. 

"  That  was  the  meaning  of  my  vision.  Pa- 
shinka  is  what  I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.  I 
lived  for  man,  on  the  pretext  of  living  for  God; 
and  she  lives  for  God,  imagining  she  lives  for 
man  I  Yes ;  one  good  deed  —  a  cup  of  cold  water 
given  without  expectation  of  reward  —  is  worth 
far  more  than  all  the  benefits  I  thought  I  was  be- 
stowing on  the  world.  But  was  there  not,  after 
all,  one  grain  of  sincere  desire  to  serve  God?  "  he 
asked  himself.  And  the  answer  came:  "Yes, 
there  was;  but  it  was  so  soiled,  so  overgrown  with 
desire  for  the  world's  praise.  No;  there  is  no 
God  for  the  man  who  lives  for  the  praise  of  the 
world.     I  must  now  seek  Him/' 

He  walked  on,  just  as  he  had  made  his  way 
to  Pashinka,  from  village  to  village,  meeting  and 
parting  with  other  pilgrims,  and  asking  for  bread 
and  a  night's  rest  in  the  name  of  Christ.  Some- 
times an  angry  housekeeper  would  abuse  him, 
sometimes  a  drunken  peasant  would  revile  him; 


FATHER  SERGIUS  89 

but  for  the  most  part  he  was  given  food  and 
drink,  and  often  something  to  take  with  him. 
Many  were  favourably  disposed  towards  him  on 
account  of  his  noble  bearing.  Some,  on  the  other 
hand,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  a  gentleman  so 
reduced  to  poverty.  But  his  gentleness  van- 
quished all  hearts. 

He  often  found  a  Bible  in  a  house  where  he 
was  staying.  He  would  read  it  aloud,  and  the 
people  always  listened  to  him,  touched  by  what 
he  read  them,  and  wondering,  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing new,  although  so  familiar. 

If  he  succeeded  in  helping  people  by  his  advice 
or  by  knowing  how  to  read  and  write,  or  by  set- 
tling a  dispute,  he  did  not  afterwards  wait  to  see 
their  gratitude,  for  he  went  away  directly.  And 
little  by  little  God  began  to  reveal  Himself  within 
him. 

One  day  he  was  walking  along  the  road  witK 
two  women  and  a  soldier.  They  were  stopped 
by  a  party  consisting  of  a  lady  and  gentleman  in 
a  trap  drawn  by  a  trotter,  and  another  gentleman 
and  lady  riding.  The  gentleman  beside  the  lady 
in  the  trap  was  evidently  a  traveller  —  a  French- 
man —  while  her  husband  was  on  horseback  with 
his  daughter. 

The  party  stopped  to  show  the  Frenchman  the 
pilgrims,  who,  according  to  a  superstition  of  the 


90  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Russian  peasantry,  show  their  superiority  by 
tramping  Instead  of  working.  They  spoke  French, 
thinking  they  would  not  be  understood. 

**  Demandez-leur/'  asked  the  Frenchman,  '^  s'ils 
sont  hien  sures  de  ce  que  leur  pelerinage  est  agrea- 
bleaDieuf' 

The  old  woman  answered, — 

"  Just  as  God  wills  it.  Our  feet  have  arrived  at 
the  holy  places,  but  we  can't  tell  about  our  hearts." 

They  asked  the  soldier.  He  answered  that  he 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  belonged  nowhere. 

They  asked  Kasatsky  who  he  was. 

"  A  servant  of  God." 

"  Qu'est'ce-qii'il  dh?     II  ne  repond  pas?  " 

"  //  dit  qu^il  est  un  servUeur  de  DieuJ* 

**  II  doit  etre  un  fils  de  pretre.  II  a  de  la  race. 
^Avez-vous  de  la  petite  monnaie?  ** 

The  Frenchman  had  some  change,  and  gave 
each  of  them  twenty  kopeks. 

^^  Mais  dites-leur  que  ce  n'est  pas  pour  les 
cierges  que  je  leur  donne,  mats  pou?'  qu'ils  se  rega- 
lent  du  the.  Tea  —  tea,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 
**  Pour  vous,  mon  vieux**  And  he  patted  Kasat- 
sky on  the  shoulder  with  his  gloved  hand. 

"  Christ  save  you,"  said  Kasatsky,  and  without 
putting  on  his  hat,  bent  his  bald  head. 

Kasatsky  rejoiced  particularly  In  this  incident, 
because  he  had  shown  contempt  for  the  world's 


FATHER  SERGIUS  91 

opinion,  and  had  done  something  quite  trifling 
and  easy.  He  accepted  twenty  kopeks,  and  gave 
them  afterwards  to  a  blind  beggar  who  was  a 
friend  of  his. 

The  less  he  cared  for  the  opinion  of  the  world 
the  more  he  felt  that  God  was  with  him. 

For  eight  months  Kasatsky  tramped  In  this 
fashion,  until  at  last  he  was  arrested  In  a  provin- 
cial town  In  a  night-shelter  where  he  passed  the 
night  with  other  pilgrims.  Having  no  passport  to 
show,  he  was  taken  to  the  police-station.  When 
he  was  asked  for  documents  to  prove  his  Identity 
he  said  he  had  none;  that  he  was  a  servant  of 
God.  He  was  numbered  among  the  tramps  and 
sent  to  Siberia. 

There  he  settled  down  on  the  estate  of  a  rich 
peasant,  where  he  still  lives.  He  works  in  the 
vegetable  garden,  teaches  the  children  to  read  and 
write,  and  nurses  the  sick. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 


THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

1.  ON  RELIGION. 

2.  ON  WAR. 

3.  ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND. 

4.  ON  TAXES. 

5.  ON  JUDGING. 

6.  ON  KINDNESS. 

7.  ON  REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR. 

8.  ON  DRINK. 

9.  ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT. 

0.  ON  PRISONS. 

1.  ON  WEALTH. 

2.  ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU. 

3.  ON  THE  PRESS. 

4.  ON  REPENTANCE. 

5.  ON  ART. 

6.  ON  SCIENCE. 

7.  ON  GOING  TO  LAW. 

8.  ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT. 

9.  ON  PROPERTY. 

20.  ON  CHILDREN. 

21.  ON  EDUCATION. 


ON  RELIGION. 

Boy. 

Why  is  Nurse  so  nicely  dressed  to-day,  and  why 
did  she  make  me  wear  that  new  shirt? 

Mother. 
Because  this  is  a  holiday,  and  we  are  going  to 
church. 

Boy. 
What  holiday? 

Mother. 
Ascension  day. 

Boy. 
What  does  Ascension  mean? 

Mother. 

It  means  that  Jesus   Christ  has  ascended  to 
heaven. 

Boy. 

What  does  that  mean:  ascended? 

Mother. 
It  means  that  He  flew  up  to  heaven. 

97 


98      THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Boy. 
How  did  he  fly?     With  his  wings? 

Mother. 
Without  any  wings  whatever.     He  simply  flew 
up  because  He  is  God,  and  God  can  do  anything. 

Boy. 

But  where  did  he  fly  to  ?  Father  told  me  there 
was  nothing  in  heaven  at  all,  and  we  only  think  we 
see  something;  that  there's  nothing  but  stars  up 
there,  and  behind  them  more  stars  still,  and  that 
there  is  no  end  to  it.     Then  where  did  He  fly  to? 

Mother. 

(smiling.)     You  are  unable  to  understand  every- 
thing.    You  must  believe. 

Boy. 

„  What  must  I  believe  ? 

Mother. 
What  you  are  told  by  grown-up  people. 

Boy. 

But  when  I  said  to  you  that  somebody  was 
going  to  die  because  some  salt  had  been  spilt,  you 
said  I  was  not  to  believe  in  nonsense. 


ON  RELIGION  99 

Mother. 
Of  course  you  are  not  to  believe  in  nonsense. 

Boy. 
But  how  am  I  to  know  what  is  nonsense  and 
what  is  not? 

Mother. 
You  must  believe  what  the  true  faith  says,  and 
not  in  nonsense. 

Boy. 
Which  is  the  true  faith  then  ? 

Mother. 
Our  faith  is  the  true  one.      (To  herself.)     I 
am  afraid  I  am  talking  nonsense.      (Aloud.)      Go 
and  tell  father  we  are  ready  for  church,  and  get 
your  coat. 

Boy. 
And  shall  we  have  chocolate  after  church? 


ON  WAR 

Karlchen  Schmidt,  nine  years;  Petia  Orlov, 
ten  years;  and  Masha  Orlov,  eight  years, 

Karlchen. 

.  .  .  Because  we  Prussians  will  not  allow  Russia 
to  rob  us  of  our  land. 

Petia. 
But  we  say  this  land  belongs  to  us;  we  con- 
quered it  first. 

Masha. 
To  whom?     Is  It  ours? 

Petia. 

You  are  a  child,  and  you  don't  understand. 
"  To  us  "  means  to  our  state. 

Karlchen. 
It  is  this  way;  some  belong  to  one  state  and 
some  to  another. 

Masha. 
What  do  I  belong  to? 

ICX) 


f 


ON  WAR  loi 

Petia. 
You  belong  to  Russia,  like  the  rest  of  us. 

MashA. 
'And  if  I  don't  want  to? 

Petia. 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  you  want  to  or  not. 
You   are   Russian   all  the   same.     Every  nation 
has  its  Tsar,  its  King. 

Karlchen. 
^interrupting.)     And  a  parliament. 

Petia. 
Each  state  has  its  army,  each  state  raises  taxes. 

Masha. 
But  why  must  each  state  stand  by  itself? 

Petia. 

What  a  silly  question  I     Because  each  state  is  a 
separate  one. 

Masha. 
But  why  must  it  exist  apart? 

Petia. 

Can't    you    understand?     Because    everybody 
loves  his  own  country. 


102    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Masha. 
I  don't  understand  why  they  must  be  separate 
from  the  rest.    Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  they  all 
kept  together  ? 

Petia. 
To  keep  together  is  all  right  when  you  play 
games.     But  this  is  no  game :  it  is  a  very  serious 
matter. 

Masha: 
I  don't  understand. 

Karlchen. 
You  will  when  you  grow  up. 

Masha. 
Then  I  don't  want  to  grow  up. 
Petia. 

Such  a  tiny  girl,  and  obstinate  already,  just  like 
all  of  them. 


ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND 

Gavrila,  a  soldier  in  the  reserve,  a  servant, 
MiSHA,  his  master^s  young  son. 

Gavrila. 

Good-bye,  MIshenka,  my  dear  little  master. 
Who  knows  whether  God  will  permit  me  to  see 
you  again? 

Misha. 
Are  you  really  leaving? 

Gavrila. 

I  have  to.  There  is  war  again.  And  I  am  in 
the  reserve. 

Misha. 

A  war  with  whom?  Who's  fighting,  and  who 
are  they  fighting  against? 

Gavrila. 

God  knows.  It's  very  dIfHcult  to  understand 
all  that.     I  have  read  about  it  In  the  papers,  but  I 

103 


104    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

can't  make  it  out.  They  say  that  some  one  in 
Austria  has  a  grudge  against  us  because  of  some 
favour  he  did  to  what's-their-names.  .  .  . 

MiSHA. 

But  what  are  you  fighting  for? 
Gavrila. 

I  am  fighting  for  the  Tsar,  of  course;  for  my 
country  and  the  Orthodox  Faith. 

MiSHA. 

But  you  don't  wish  to  go  to  the  war,  do  you  ? 

Gavrila. 
Certainly  not.     To  leave  my  wife  and  my  chil- 
dren. .  .  .     Do  you  suppose  I  would  leave  this 
happy  life  of  my  own  free  will  ? 

MiSHA. 

Then  why  do  you  go?  Tell  them  you  don't 
want  to,  and  stop  here.  What  can  they  do  to 
you? 

Gavrila. 

( laughing, )  What  can  they  do  ?  They  will  take 
me  by  force. 

MiSHA. 

Who  can  take  you  by  force? 


ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND     105 
Gavrila. 
Men  who  have  to  obey,  and  who  are  exactly  in 
my  position. 

MlSHA. 

Why  will  they  take  you  by  force  if  they  are  in 
the  same  position? 

Gavrila. 
Because  of  the  authorities.     They  will  be  or- 
dered to  take  me,  and  they  will  have  to  do  It. 

MiSHA. 

But  suppose  they  don't  want  to? 

Gavrila. 
They  have  to  obey. 

MiSHA. 

But  why? 

Gavrila. 
iWhy?    Because  of  the  law. 

MiSHA. 

[What  law'. 

Gavrila. 
You  are  a  funny  boy.     It's  a  pleasure  to  chat 
with  you.     But  now  I  had  better  go  and  get  the 
samovar  ready.     It  will  be  for  the  last  time. 


ON  TAXES 

The  Bailiff  and  Grushka. 
Bailiff. 

(entering  a  poor  cottage.  Nobody  is  in  except 
Grushka,  a  little  girl  of  seven.  He  looks  around 
him.)     Nobody  at  home? 

Grushka. 
Mother  has  gone  to  bring  home  the  cow,  and 
Fedka  is  at  work  in  the  master's  yard. 

Bailiff. 
Well,  tell  your  mother  the  bailiff  called.     Tell 
her  I  am  giving  her  notice  for  the  third  time,  and 
that  she  must  pay  her  taxes  before  Sunday  without 
fail,  or  else  I  will  take  her  cow. 

Grushka. 

The  cow?     Are  you  a  thief?     We  will  not  let 
you  take  our  cow. 

Bailiff. 
{smiling.)     What  a  smart  girl,  I  say!     What  is 
your  name? 

io6 


ON  TAXES  107 

Grushka. 
Grushka. 

Bailiff. 
You  are  a  good  girl,  Grushka.     Now  listen. 
Tell  your  mother  that,  although  I  am  not  a  thief, 
I  will  take  her  cow. 

Grushka. 
Why  will  you  take  our  cow  if  you  are  not  a 
thief? 

Bailiff. 
Because  what  is  due  must  be  paid.     I  shall 
take  the  cow  for  the  taxes  that  are  not  paid. 

Grushka. 
What's  that:  taxes? 

Bailiff. 
What  a  nuisance  of  a  girl!     What  are  taxes? 
They  are  money  paid  by  the  people  by  the  order  of ' 
the  Tsar. 

Grushka, 
To  whom? 

Bailiff. 
The  Tsar  will  look  after  that  when  the  money 
comes  in. 

Grushka. 
He's  not  poor,  is  he?    We  are  the  poor  people. 


io8    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

The  Tsar  Is  rich.     Why  does  he  want  us  to  give 
him  money? 

Bailiff. 

He  does  not  take  It  for  himself.     He  spends  It 

on  us,  fools  that  we  are.     It  all  goes  to  supply  our 

needs  —  to   pay  the   authorities,   the   army,   the 

schools.     It  is  for  our  own  good  that  we  pay  taxes. 

Grushka. 
How  does  it  benefit  us  If  our  cow  Is  taken  away? 
There's  no  good  in  that. 

Bailiff. 
You  will  understand  that  when  you  are  grown- 
up.    Now,  mind  you  give  your  mother  my  mes- 
sage. 

Grushka. 
I  will  not  repeat  all  your  nonsense  to  her.     lYou 
can  do  whatever  you  and  the  Tsar  want.    'And 
we  shall  mind  our  own  business. 

Bailiff. 

What  a  devil  of  a  girl  she  will  be  when  she 
grows  up  I 


ON  JUDGING 

MiTiA,  a  hoy  of  ten;  Iliusha,  a  hoy^  of  nine; 
SoNiA,  a  girl  of  six. 

MiTIA. 
I  told  Peter  Semenovich  we  could  get  used  to 
wearing  no  clothes  at  all.  And  he  said,  "  That  Is 
impossible."  Then  I  told  him  Michael  Ivano- 
vich  said  that  just  as  we  have  managed  to  get  our 
bare  faces  used  to  the  cold,  we  could  do  the  same 
with  our  whole  body.  Peter  Semenovich  said, 
"  Your  Michael  Ivanovich  is  a  fool."  '(i/^ 
laughs,)  And  Michael  Ivanovich  said  to  me 
only  yesterday,  "  Peter  Semenovich  is  talking  a 
lot  of  nonsense.  But,  of  course,"  he  added, 
"  there's  no  law  for  fools."     {He  laughs,)^ 

Iliusha. 
If  I  were  you  I  would  tell  Peter  Semenovich, 
"  You  abuse  Michael  Ivanovich,  and  he  does  the 
same  to  you." 

MiTlA. 
No ;  but  truly,  I  wish  I  knew  which  of  them  is 
the  fool. 

109 


no    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

SONIA. 

They  both  are.     Whoever  calls  another  person 
a  fool  is  a  fool  himself. 

Iliusha. 
And  you  have  called  them  both  fools.     iThen 
you  are  one  also. 

MiTIA. 

Well,  I  hate  people  saying  things  about  each 
other  behind  their  backs  and  never  openly  to  their 
faces.     When  I  am  grown-up  I  shan't  be  like  that. 
I  shall  always  say  what  I  think. 
Iliusha. 

So  shall  I. 

SONIA. 

And  I  shall  do  just  whatever  I  like. 

MiTIA. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

SONIA. 

Why,  I  shall  say  what  I  think  -^  if  I  choose. 
And  if  I  don't  choose,  I  won't. 

Iliusha. 
[You're  a  big  fool,  that  is  what  you  are. 

SONIA. 

And  you  have  just  said  you  will  never  call 
people  names.     But  of  course.     .     .     . 


ON  KINDNESS 

The  children,  Masha  and  MiSHA,  are  building  a 
tent  for  their  dolls  in  front  of  the  house. 

MiSHA. 

{in  an  angry  tone  to  Masha.)  No,  not  this. 
Bring  that  stick  there.  What  a  blockhead  you 
are  I 

An  Old  Woman. 
{coming  out  of  the  house ,  crossing  herself,  and 
muttering,)     Jesus    Christ   reward   her  I     What 
an  angel !     She  has  pity  on  every  one. 

{The  Children  cease  to  play,  and 
look  at  the  old  woman,) 

MiSHA. 

Who  Is  as  good  as  all  that? 

.    Old  Woman. 

Your  mother.  She  has  God  in  her  soul.  She 
pities  us,  the  poor.  She  has  given  me  a  skirt  — 
and  some  tea,  and  money  too.     The  Queen  of 

III 


112    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Heaven  save  her  I  Not  like  that  godless  man. 
"  Such  a  lot  of  you,"  he  says,  "  tramping  about 
here."     And  such  savage  dogs  he  hasl 

MiSHA. 

Who  IS  that? 

Old  Woman. 

The  man  opposite.  The  wine  merchant.  A 
very  unkind  gentleman,  I  can  tell  you.  But  never 
mind.  I  am  so  thankful  to  the  dear  lady.  She 
has  given  me  presents,  has  relieved  me,  miserable 
creature  that  I  am.  How  could  we  exist  if  it  were 
not  for  such  kind  people?     {She  weeps,) 

Masha. 
(to  MiSHA.)     How  good  she  is  I 

Old  Woman. 
When  you  are  grown  up,  children,  be  as  kind  as 
she  is  to  the  poor.     God  will  reward  you. 

{Exit.) 

MiSHA. 

How  wretched  she  is  I 

Masha. 
I  am  so  glad  mother  has  given  her  something. 

MiSHA. 

Why  shouldn't  one  give,  if  one  has  got  plenty 


ON  KINDNESS  113 

of  everything  oneself?     We  are  not  poor,  and 
she  is. 

Masha. 
You  remember,  John  the  Baptist  said:     Who- 
ever has  two  coats,  let  him  give  away  one. 

MiSHA. 

Oh,  when  I  am  grown  up  I  will  give  away 
everything  I  have. 

Masha. 

Not  everything,  I  should  think. 

MlSHA. 

Why    not? 

Masha. 
But  what  would  you  have  left  for  yourself  ? 

MiSHA. 

I  don't  care.     We  must  always  be  kind.     Then 
the  whole  world  will  be  happy. 

'(MiSHA  stopped  playing  with  his  sis- 
ter, went  to  the  nursery,  tore  a  page  out 
of  a  copy-hook,  wrote  a  line  on  it,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  On  that  page  was 
written:    We  Must  Be  Kind.) 


ON  REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR 

The  Father;  Katia,  a  girl  of  nine;  Fedia,  a  hoy 
of  eight. 

Katia. 
Father,   our  sledge  Is  broken.     Couldn't  you 
mend  It  for  us? 

Father. 
No,  darling,  I  can  not.     I  don't  know  how  to 
do  It.     Give  It  to  Prohor;  he  will  put  It  right  for 
you. 

Katia. 
We  have  asked  him  to  already.     He  says  he  Is 
busy.     He  Is  making  a  gate. 

Father. 

Well,  then,  you  must  just  wait  a  little  with  your 
sledge. 

Fedia. 

And  you,   father,   can't  you  mend  It  for  us, 
really? 

114 


REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR     115 
Father. 
{smiling.)      Really,  my  boy. 

Fedia. 
Can't  you  do  any  work  at  all? 

Father. 
(laughing.)     Oh  yes,   there   are  some  kinds   of 
work  I  can  do.     But  not  the  kind  that  Prohor 
does. 

Fedia. 

Can  you  make  samovars  like  Vania  ? 

Father. 

No. 

Fedia. 
Or  harness  horses? 

Father. 
Not  that  either. 

Fedia. 
I  wonder  why  are  we  all  unable  to  do  any  work, 
and  they  do  It  all  for  us.     Ought  It  to  be  like 
that? 

Father. 
Everybody  has  to  do  the  work  he  is  fit  for. 
Learn,  like  a  good  boy,  and  you  will  know  what 
work  everybody  has  to  do. 


ii6    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Fedia. 
Are  we  not  to  learn  how  to  prepare  food  and 
to  harness  horses? 

Father. 
There  are  things  more  necessary  than  that. 

Fedia. 
I  know:  to  be  kind,  not  to  get  cross,  not  to 
abuse  people.     But  isn't  it  possible  to  do  the  cook- 
ing and  harness  horses,  and  be  kind  just  the  same? 
Isn't  that  possible  ? 

Father. 
Undoubtedly.     Just  wait  till  you  are  grown  up. 
Then  you  will  understand. 

Fedia. 
And  what  If  I  don't  grow  up  ? 

Father. 
Don't  talk  nonsense  I 

Katia. 
Then  we  may  ask  Prohor  to  mend  the  skdge? 

Father. 
Yes,  do.     Go  to  Prohor  and  tell  him  I  wish 
him  to  do  it. 


ON  DRINK 

5jf«  evening  in  the  autumn. 

'(Makarka,  a  hoy  of  twelve,  and 
Marfutka,  a  girl  of  eight,  are  coming 
'out  of  the  house  into  the  street.  Mar- 
FUTKA  is  crying.  Pavlushka,  a  hoy 
of  ten,  stands  before  the  house  next 
door.) 

Pavlushka. 
Where  the  devil  are  you  going  to,  both  of  you  ? 
Have  you  any  night  work? 

Makarka. 
Crazy  drunk  again. 

Pavlushka. 
Who?     Uncle  Prohor? 

Makarka. 
Of  course. 

Marfutka. 

He  is  beating  mother  — * 
117 


ii8     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Makarka. 
I  won't  go  inside  to-night.     He  would  hit  me 
also.      (Sitting  down  on  the  doorstep.)      I  will 
stay  here  the  whole  night.     I  will. 

(Marfutka  weeps,) 

Pavlushka. 
Stop  crying.     Never  mind.     It  can't  be  helped. 
Stop  crying,  I  say. 

Marfutka. 
If  I  was  the  Tsar,  I  would  have  the  people  who 
give  him  any  drink  just  beaten  to  death.     I  would 
not  allow  anybody  to  sell  brandy. 

Pavlushka. 
Wouldn't  you  ?     But  It  Is  the  Tsar  himself  who 
sells  It.     He  doesn't  let  anybody  else  sell  it,  for 
fear  it  would  lessen  his  own  profits. 

Marfutka. 
It  IS  a  He ! 

Pavlushka. 
Humph  I     A  lie!     You  just  aslc  anybody  you 
like.     Why  have   they  put  Akullna   in  prison? 
Because  they  did  not  want  her  to  sell  brandy  and 
lessen  their  profits. 

Makarka. 
Is  that  really  so  I     I  heard  she  had  done  some- 
thing against  the  law. 


ON  DRINK  119 

Pavlushka. 
What  she   did   against   the   law  was   selling 
brandy. 

Marfutka. 
I  would  not  allow  her  to  sell  it  either.     It  Is 
just  that  brandy  that  does  all  the  mischief.     Some- 
times he  Is  very  nice,  and  then  at  other  times  he 
hits  everybody. 

Makarka. 
{to  Pavlushka.)     You  say  very  strange  things. 
I  will  ask  the  schoolmaster  to-morrow.    He  must 
know. 

Pavlushka. 
Do  ask  him. 

{The  next  morning  Prohor, 
Makarka's  father,  after  a  night's 
sleep,  goes  to  refresh  himself  with  a 
drink;  Makarka's  mother,  with  a 
swollen  eye,  is  kneading  bread. 
Makarka  has  gone  to  school.  The 
Schoolmaster  is  sitting  at  the  door  of 
the  village  school,  watching  the  children 
coming  in,) 

Makarka. 
{coming    up    to    the    schoolmaster,)      Tell    me, 
please,  Eugene  Semenovlch,  Is  it  true,  what  a  fel- 
low was  telling  me,  that  the  Tsar  makes  a  busi- 


120    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

ness  of  selling  brandy,  and  that  Is  why  Akullna 
has  been  sent  to  prison? 

Schoolmaster. 
That  IS  a  very  silly  question,  and  whoever  told 
you  that  Is  a  fool.  The  Tsar  sells  nothing  what- 
soever. A  tsar  never  does.  As  for  Akullna,  she 
was  put  In  prison  because  she  was  selling  brandy 
without  a  license,  and  was  thereby  lessening  the 
revenues  of  the  Crown. 

Makarka. 
How  lessening? 

Schoolmaster. 
Because  there  Is  a  duty  on  spirits.  A  barrel 
costs  so  much  In  the  factory,  and  Is  sold  to  the 
public  for  so  much  more.  This  surplus  constitutes 
the  income  of  the  state.  The  largest  revenue 
comes  from  It,  and  amounts  to  many  millions. 

Makarka. 
Then  the  more  brandy  people  drInK  the  greater 
the  Income? 

Schoolmaster. 
Certainly.     If  it  were  not  for  that  income  there 
would  be  nothing  to  keep   the   army  with,    or 
schools,  or  all  the  rest  of  the  things  you  need. 


ON  DRINK  121 

Makarka. 
But  if  all  those  things  are  necessary,  why  not 
take  the  money  directly  for  the  necessary  things? 
Why  get  It  by  means  of  brandy? 

Schoolmaster. 
Why?     Because  that  is  the  law.     But  the  chil- 
dren are  all  In  now.     Take  your  seats. 


;0N  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT 

Peter  Petrovich,  a  professor.  Maria  Ivan- 
OVNA,  his  wife  {sewing,)  Fedia,  their  son,  a  hoy 
of  nine  {listening  to  his  father^ s  conversation,) 
Ivan  Vasilievich,  counsel  for  the  prosecution  in 
the  court  martial, 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
The  experience  of  history  cannot  be  gainsaid. 
We  have  not  only  seen  In  France  after  the  revolu- 
tion, and  at  other  historical  moments,  but  in  our 
own  country  as  well,  that  doing  away  with  —  I 
mean  the  removal  of  perverted  and  dangerous 
members  of  society  has  in  fact  the  desired  result. 

Peter  Petrovich. 
No,  we  cannot  know  what  the  consequences  of 
this  are  In  reality.     The  proclamation  of  a  state 
of  siege  Is  therefore  not  justified. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
But  neither  have  we  the  right  to  presume  that 
the  consequences  of  a  state  of  siege  must  be  bad, 

Z22 


ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT      123 

or,  if  It  proves  to  be  so,  that  such  consequences 
are  brought  about  by  the  employment  of  a  state  of 
siege.  This  Is  one  point.  The  other  Is  that  fear 
cannot  fall  to  Influence  those  who  have  lost  every 
human  sensibility  and  are  like  beasts.  What  ex- 
cept fear  could  have  any  effect  on  men  like  that 
one  who  calmly  stabbed  an  old  woman  and  three 
children  in  order  to  steal  three  hundred  roubles  ? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
But  I  am  not  against  capital  punishment  in 
principle ;  I  am  only  opposed  to  the  special  courts 
martial  which  are  so  often  formed.  If  these 
frequent  executions  did  nothing  but  inspire  fear, 
it  would  be  different.  But  In  addition  they  per- 
vert the  mind,  and  killing  becomes  a  habit  of 
thought. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
There  again  we  don't  know  anything  about  the 
remote  consequences,  but  we  do  know,  on  the  con- 
trary, how  beneficial.  .  .  . 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Beneficial? 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 

Yes,  how  beneficial  the  immediate  results  are, 
and  we  have  no  right  to  deny  it.     How  could 


124    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

society  similarly  fall  to  exact  the  penalty  from 
Such  a  wretch  as  .  .  . 

Peter  Petrovich. 
You  mean  society  must  take  Its  revenge  J 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
No,  the  object  Is  not  revenge.     On  the  con- 
trary, It  must  substitute  for  personal  revenge  the 
penalty  Imposed  for  the  good  of  the  community. 

Peter  Petrovich. 
But  in  that  case  It  must  be  subject  to  regulations 
settled  by  the  law  once  for  ever,  and  not  as  a 
special  order  of  things. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 

The  penalty  imposed  by  the  community  is  a 
substitute  for  casual,  exaggerated  revenge,  in 
many  cases  ungrounded  and  erroneous,  which  a 
private  individual  might  take. 

Peter  Petrovich. 

(passionately,)  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  the 
penalty  imposed  by  society  Is  never  casual,  is 
always  well  founded,  is  never  erroneous?  I  can- 
not admit  that.  None  of  your  arguments  could 
ever  convince  me  or  anyone  else  that  thi^  is  true 


ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT      125 

of  a  state  of  siege,  under  which  thousands  have 
been  executed  •  .  .  and  under  which  execu- 
tions are  still  going  on  —  that  all  this  is  both  just 
and  legal,  and  beneficial  into  the  bargain  I  (Rises 
and  walks  up  and  down  in  great  agitation,) 

Fedia. 
'{to  his  mother,)     Mother,  what  is  father  talking 
about? 

Maria  Ivanovna. 

Father  thinks  it  wrong  that  so  many  people  are 
put  to  death. 

Fedia. 
Do  you  mean  really  put  to  death? 

Maria  Ivanovna. 
Yes.     He  thinks  It  ought  not  to  be  done  so 
frequently. 

Fedia. 
'{coming  up  to  his  father.)     Father,  isn't  It  writ- 
ten in  the  Ten  Commandments :  "  Thou  shalt  not 
kill  "  ?    Doesn't  that  mean  you  are  not  to  kill  at 
all? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
'{smiling,)     That  does  not  refer  to  what  we  are 
talking  about.     It  only  means  that  men  are  not 
to  kill  other  men. 


126    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Fedia. 
But  when  they  execute  they  kill,  don't  they? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Certainly.     But  the  thing  is  to  know  why  and 
when  it  Is  permissible. 

Fedia. 
When  is  it  ? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Why,  think  of  a  war,  or  of  a  great  villain  who 
has  committed  many  murders.     How  could  one 
leave  him  unpunished? 

Fedia. 
But  isn't  it  written  in  the  Gospel  that  we  must 
love  and  forgive  everybody? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
If  we  could  do  that  it  would  be  splendid.     But 
that  cannot  be. 

Fedia. 
Why? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
(to  Ivan  Vasilievich,  who  listens  to  Fedia  with 
a  smile.)     As  I  said,  dear  Ivan  Vasilievich,  I  can- 
not and  will  not  admit  the  benefit  of  a  state  of 
siege  and  courts-martial. 


ON  PRISONS 

Semka,  a  boy  of  thirteen ;  AksutkA,  a  girl  of 
ten;  Palashka,  a  girl  of  nine;  Vanka,  a  hoy  of 
eight.  They  are  sitting  at  the  well,  with  baskets 
of  mushrooms  which  they  have  gathered, 

AksutkA. 
Aunt  Matrena  was  crying  so  desperately.     And 
the  children  too  would  not  leave  off  howling,  all 
at  the  same  time. 

Vanka. 
Why  were  they  howling? 

Palashka. 
What  about?    Why,    their    father   has   been 
taken  off  to  prison.     Who  should  cry  but  the 
family? 

Vanka. 
Why  IS  he  in  prison? 

AksutkA). 

I  don't  know.     They  came  and  told  him  to  get 
127 


128     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

his  things  ready  and  led  him  away.     We  saw  It 
all  from  our  cottage. 

Semka. 
Serves  him  right  for  being  a  horse-stealer.     He 
stole  a  horse  from  Demkln's  place  and  one  from 
Hramov's.     He  and  his  gang  also  got  hold  of  our 
gelding.     Who  could  love  him  for  that? 

Aksutka. 
That  IS  all  right,  but  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor 
brats.     There  are  four  of  them.     And  so  poor  — >. 
no  bread  In  the  house.    To-day  they  had  to  come 
to  us. 

Semka. 
Serves  the  thief  right. 

MiTKA. 

But  he's  the  only  one  that  Is  the  thief.  Why 
must  his  children  become  beggars? 

Semka. 
Why  did  he  steal  ? 

MiTKA. 

The  kid*s  didn't  steal  —  It  is  just  he. 
Semka. 

Kids  indeed!  Why  did  he  do  wrong?  That 
doesn't  alter  the  case,  that  he  has  got  children. 
Does  that  give  him  the  right  to  be  a  thief? 


ON  PRISONS  129 

Vanka. 
What  will  they  do  to  him  in  prison? 

Aksutka. 
He  will  just  sit  there.     That's  all. 

Vanka. 
And  will  they  give  him  food? 

Semka. 
That's  just  the  reason  why  they're  not  afraid, 
those  damned  horse-thieves !  He  doesn't  mind 
going  to  prison.  They  provide  him  with  every- 
thing and  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  sit  idle  the 
whole  day  long.  If  I  were  the  Tsar,  I  would 
know  how  to  manage  those  horse-thieves.  .  .  . 
I  would  teach  them  a  lesson  that  would  make 
them  give  up  the  habit  of  stealing.  Now  he  has 
nothing  to  worry  him.  He  sits  In  the  company 
of  fellows  like  himself,  and  they  teach  each  other 
how  to  steal.  Grandfather  said  Petrusha  was 
quite  a  good  boy  when  he  went  to  prison  for  the 
first  time,  but  he  came  out  a  desperate  villain. 
Since  then  he's  taken  to  — * 

Vanka. 
Then  why  do  they  put  people  in  prison? 

Semka. 
Just  ask  them. 


130     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Aksutka. 
He  will  have  all  his  food  given  to  him  — 
Semka. 
(agreeing,)     So  he  will  get  more  accustomed  to 
finding  the  food  ready  for  him ! 

Aksutka. 

While  the  kiddies  and  their  mother  have  to  die 
of  starvation.  They  are  our  neighbours;  we  can't 
help  pitying  them.  When  they  come  asking  for 
bread,  we  can't  refuse.     How  could  we? 

Vanka.    ,    .._^ 
Then  why  are  those  people  put^  prison? 

Semka. 
What  else  could  be  done  with  them? 

Vanka. 
What?     What    could    be    done?     One    must 
somehow  manage  that.  .  .  • 

Semka. 
Yes,    somehow!     But   you   don't  Know   how. 
There  have  been  people  with  more  brains  than 
youVe  got  who  have  thought  about  that,  and  they 
couldn't  invent  anything. 

Palashka. 
I  think  if  I  had  been  a  queen  .  .  . 


ON  PRISONS  131 

Aksutka. 
(laughing.)     Well,  what  would  you  have  done, 
my  queen? 

Palashka. 
I  would  have  things  so  that  nobody  would  steal 
and  the  children  would  not  cry. 

Aksutka. 
How  would  you  do  that? 

Palashka. 
I  would  just  see  that  everybody  was  given  what 
he  needed,  that  nobody  was  wronged  by  anybody 
else,  and  that  they  were  all  happy. 

Semka. 

Three  cheers  for  the  queen!     But  how  would 
you  manage  that  ? 

Palashka. 
I  would  just  do  It,  you  would  see. 

MiTKA. 

Let  us  all  go  to  the  birch  woods.     The  girls 
have  been  gathering  a  lot  there  lately. 

Semka. 
AH   right.     Come   along,   you    fellows.     And 
you,  queen,  mind  you  don't  drop  your  mushrooms. 
You  are  so  sharp. 

(They  get  up  and  go  away.) 


ON  WEALTH 

The  Landlord,  his  Wife,  their  Daughter 
and  their  son  Vasia,  six  years  old,  are  having  tea 
on  the  veranda.  The  grown-up  children  are 
playing  tennis,  A  YouNG  Beggar  comes  up  to 
the  veranda. 

Landlord. 
{to  the  beggar.)     What  do  you  want? 

Beggar. 
{bowing  to  him.)  I  dare  say  you  know.  Have 
pity  on  a  man  out  of  work.  I  am  tramping,  with 
nothing  to  eat,  and  no  clothes  to  wear.  I  have 
been  to  Moscow,  and  am  trying  to  get  home. 
Help  a  poor  man. 

Landlord. 
Why  are  you  poor  ? 

Beggar. 
Why?    Because  I  haven't  got  anything. 

Landlord. 
You  would  not  be  poor  if  you  worked. 
132 


ON  WEALTH  133 

Beggar. 
I  would  be  glad  to,  but  I  can't  get  a  job. 
Everything  Is  shut  down  now. 

Landlord. 
How  IS  it  other  people  find  work  and  you  can- 
not? 

Beggar. 
Believe  me,  upon  my  soul,  I  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  work.     But  I  can't  find  a  job.     Have  pity 
on  me,  sir.     I  have  not  eaten  for  two  days,  and 
IVe  been  tramping  all  the  time. 

Landlord. 
(to  his  wife  in  French,)     Have  you  any  change? 
I  have  only  notes. 

His  Wife. 
(to  Vasia.)     Be  a  good  boy,  go  and  fetch  my 
purse ;  it  is  in  my  bag  on  the  little  table  beside  my 
bed. 

^Vasia  'does  not  hear  what  his  mother 
says;  he  has  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  beggar,) 

The  Wife 
Don't  you  hear,  Vasia?     \Pulling  him  by  the 
sleeve,)     Vasia  I 


134    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Vasia. 
What,  mother? 

(The  Wife  repeats  her  directions,) 
Vasia. 
{jumping  up.)     I  am  off.     {Goes,  looking  hack 
at  the  beggar,) 

Landlord. 
{to  the  beggar.)     Wait  a  moment.     (Beggar 
steps  aside,) 

Landlord. 
{to  his  wife,  in  French,)      Is  it  not  dreadful?    So 
many  are  out  of  work  now.     It  is  all  laziness. 
Yet,  it  is  horrid  if  he  really  is  hungry. 

His  WifE;^\_ 

I  hear  it  is  just  the  same  abroad.  1  haveTead 
that  in  New  York  there  are  100,000  unemployed. 
Another  cup  of  tea  ? 

Landlord.  ^^^^^ — ^1 

Yes,  but  much  weaker.  {He  lights  a  cigarette; 
they  stop  talking,) 

(Beggar  looks  at  them,  shakes  his 
head  and  coughs,  evidently  to  attract 
their  attention,) 

(Vasia  comes  running  with  the 
purse  looks  round  for  the  beggar  and, 
passing  the  purse  to  his  mother,  looks 
again  fixedly  at  the  beggar,) 


ON  WEALTH  135 

Landlord. 
(taking  a  ten  kopek  piece  out  of  the  purse,) 
There,  What's-your-name,  take  that. 

Beggar. 
'{hows,  pulls  of  his  cap  and  takes  the  money,) 
Thank  you,   thank  you   for  that  much.     Many 
thanks  for  having  pity  on  a  poor  man. 

Landlord. 

I  pity  you  chiefly  for  being  out  of  work.  Work 
would  save  you  from  poverty.  He  who  works 
will  never  be  poor. 

Beggar. 

{having  received  the  money,  puts  on  his  cap  and 
turns  away,)  They  say  truly  that  work  does  not 
make  a  rich  man  but  a  humpback.     {Exit.) 

Vasia. 

What  did  he  say  I 

Landlord. 
He  repeated  that  stupid  peasant's  proverb,  that 
work  does  not  make  a  rich  man  but  a  humpback. 

Vasia. 
What  does  that  mean? 


136    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Landlord. 
It  is  supposed  to  mean  that  work  makes  a  man's 
back  crooked,  without  ever  making  him  rich. 

Yasia. 
But  that  is  not  true,  is  it? 

Father. 
Of  course  not.    Those  who  tramp  about  like 
that  man  there  and  have  no  desire  to  work,  are 
always  poor.     It's  only  those  who  work,  who  get 
rich. 

Vasia. 
Why  are  we  rich,  then,  when  we  don't  work? 

Mother.  (^^n^ 

(laughing,)     How  do  you  know  father  doemt 
work? 

Vasia. 
I  don't  know,  but  since  we  are  very  rich,  father 
ought  to  be  working  very  hard.     Is  he,  I  wonder? 

Father. 
There  is  work  and  work.     My  worE  is  perhaps 
work  that  everybody  could  not  do. 

Vasia. 
What  is  your  work? 


ON  WEALTH  137 

Father. 
My  work  is  to  provide  for  your  food,  your 
clothes,  and  your  education. 

Vasia. 
But  hasn't  he  to  provide  all  that  also?    Then 
why  is  he  so  miserable  when  we  are  so  — • 

Father. 
(laughing,)     What  a  self-made  socialist,  I  say! 
Mother. 
Yes,  people  say:    "A  fool  can  ask  more  ques- 
tions than  a  thousand  wise  men  can  answer."     In- 
stead of  "  fool,"  we  ought  to  say  "  every  child." 


ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU 

Masha,  a  girl  of  ten;  Vania,  a  hoy  of  eight. 

Masha. 
What  I  wish  IS  that  mother  would  come  home 
at  once  and  take  us  shopping,  and  then  to  call  on 
Nastia.     What  would  you  like  to  happen  now? 

Vania. 
I  ?     I  wish  something  would  happen  like  it  did 
yesterday. 

Masha. 

What  happened  yesterday?  You  mean  when 
Grisha  hit  you  and  you  both  began  to  cry?  There 
wasn't  much  good  in  that. 

Vania. 
That's  just  what  was  beautiful.     Nothing  could 
have  been  more  so.     That's  what  I  want  to  hap- 
pen again. 

Masha. 
I  don't  understand. 

138 


ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU     139 

Vania. 

Well,  I  will  explain  what  I  want  Do  you 
remember  last  Sunday,  Uncle  P.-=  you  know  how 
I  love  him.  .  .  . 

Masha. 

Who  wouldn't.  Mother  says  he  is  a  saint ;  and 
it's  true. 

Vania. 

Well,  you  remember  he  told  us  a  story  last 
Sunday  about  a  man  whom  people  used  to  insult. 
The  more  any  one  Insulted  him  the  more  he  loved 
the  offender.  They  abused  him,  and  he  praised 
them.  They  hit  him  and  he  helped  them.  Uncle 
said  that  anybody  who  acts  so  feels  very  happy. 
I  liked  what  he  said,  and  I  wanted  to  be  like  that 
man.  So,  when  Grisha  hit  me  yesterday,  I  re- 
membered my  wish  and  kissed  Grisha.  He  burst 
out  crying.  I  felt  very  happy.  But  with  nurse 
yesterday  it  was  different;  she  began  scolding  me, 
and  I  quite  forgot  how  I  ought  to  have  behaved, 
and  I  answered  her  very  rudely.  What  I  wish 
now  is  to  have  the  same  experience  over  again 
that  I  had  with  Grisha. 

Masha. 
Then  you  would  like  somebody  to  strike  you? 


140    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Vania. 
I  would  like  it  awfully.     I  would  immediately 
do  what  I  did  to  Grisha,  and  I  would  be  so  glad. 

Masha. 

How  stupid !     Just  like  the  fool  youVe  always 
been. 

Vania. 
I  don't  mind  being  a  fool.     I  only  Know  now 
what  to  do,  so  as  to  feel  happy  all  the  time. 
Masha. 
A  regular  fool !     Do  you  really  feel  happy,  do- 
ing so  ? 

Vania. 
Just  awfully  happy  I 


ON  THE  PRESS 

\The  schoolroom  at  home, 

(VOLODIA,  a  schoolboy  of  fourteen, 
is  reading;  Sonia,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  is 
writing.     The     Yard-Porter     enters, 

^^^^^carrying   a   heavy   load   on    his    back; 

/^     MlSHA,^  boy  of  eight,  following  him,) 


Porter. 
Where   am   I  to  put  that  bundle,  sir?     My 
shoulders  are  bent  down  with  the  weight  of  it. 

VOLODIA. 

Where  were  you  told  to  put  it? 

Porter. 
Vasily  Timofeevich  told  me  to  carry  it  to  the 
schoolroom  and  leave  it  for  him. 

yOLODIA. 

Then  put  it  in  the  corner. 

'(Porter    unloads    the    bundle   and 
sighs  heavily,) 

141 


142    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

SONIA. 
What  IS  it? 

VOLODIA. 

"  Truth  "—  a  paper. 

MiSHA. 

"  Truth  "  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

SONIA. 

Why  have  you  so  many? 

VOLODIA. 

It  is  a  collection  of  the  whole  year's  issues. 

( Continues  reading. ) 

MiSHA. 

Has  all  this  been  written?  ^^^____ 

Porter. 
The  fellows  who  wrote  it  weren't  very  lazy, 
ni  bet. 

VOLODIA. 
(laughs,)     What  did  you  say? 
Porter. 
I  said  what  I  meant.     It  wasn't  a  lazy  lot  that 
wrote    all    that.     Well,    Fm    going.     Will    you 
kindly  say  I  have  brought  the  bundle.     (Exit,) 

SONIA. 

(to  VOLODIA.)     What  does  father  want  all  those 
papers  for? 


ON  THE  PRESS  143 

VOLODIA. 

He  wants  to  collect  Bolchakov's  articles  from 
them. 

SONIA. 

And   Uncle    Michael   Ivanovlch   says   reading 
Bolchakov  makes  him  111. 

VOLODIA. 

Just  like  Uncle  Michael  Ivanovich.     He  only 
reads  "  Truth  for  All.'' 

-> ^MlSHA. 

And  is^cle's  "  Truth  "  as  big  as  this? 

^'-^"'^  SONIA. 

Bigger.     But  this  is  only  for  one  year,  and  the 
papers  have  been  published  twenty  years  or  more. 

MiSHA. 

That  makes  twenty  such  bundles  and  another 
twenty  more. 

SONIA. 
(wishing  to  mystify   MiSHA.)     That's  nothing. 
These  are  only  two  papers,  and  besides  there  are 
at  least  thirty  more. 

VOLODIA. 
(without  raising   his   head.)      Thirty,   you   say  I 
There  are  five  hundred  and  thirty  In  Russia  alone. 
And  with  those  published  abroad  there  are  thou- 
sands altogether. 


144    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

MiSHA. 

They  couldn't  all  be  put  into  this  room. 

VOLODIA. 

Not  even  in  this  whole  street.  But  please 
don't  disturb  me  in  my  work.  To-morrow  teacher 
is  sure  to  call  upon  me,  and  you  don't  give  me  a 
chance  of  learning  my  lessons  with  your  silly  talk. 

{Resumes  his  reading,) 

MiSHA. 

I  don't  think  there's  any  use  writing  so  much. 

SONIA. 
Why  not? 

MiSHA. 

Because  if  what  they  write  is  true,  then  why  say 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  again?  If  it  isn't, 
then  why  say  what  is  not  true  ? 

SONIA. 

An  excellent  judgment  I 

MiSHA. 
Why  do  they  write  such  an  awful  lot? 

VOLODIA. 

(without  taking  his  eyes  off  his  hook,)  Because 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  freedom  of  the  press,  how 
would  people  know  what  the  truth  is? 


ON  THE  PRESS  145 

MiSHA. 

Father  says  the  "  Truth  "  contains  the  truth, 

;  and   Uncle    Michael    Ivanovich    says    "  Truth " 

makes  him  ill.     Then  how  do  they  know  where 

the  truth  really  is  —  in  "  Truth  "  or  in  "  Truth  for 

All"? 

SONIA. 

I  think  you  are  right.  There  are  really  too 
many  paper^^^ftid  magazines  and  books. 

VOLODIA. 

Just  like  a  woman :  perfectly  senseless  in  every 
conclusion! 

SONIA. 

I  only  mean  that  when  there  is  so  much  written 
it  is  impossible  to  know  anything  really. 

VOLODIA. 

But  everybody  has  brains  given  him  to  find  out 
where  the  truth  is. 

MiSHA. 

Then  if  everybody  has  got  brains  he  can  reason 
things  out  for  himself. 

VOLODIA. 

So  that's  how  you  reason  with  your  large  supply 
of  brains!  Please  go  somewhere  else  and  leave 
me  alone  to  work. 


ON  REPENTANCE 

VOLIA,  a  hoy  of  eight ,  stands  in  the  passage 
with  an  empty  plate  and  cries,  Fedia,  a  hoy  of 
ten,  comes  running  into  the  passage. 

Fedia. 
Mother  sent  me  to  see  where  you  were;  but 
what  are  you  crying  for?     Have  you  brought 
nurse  .  .  .   {Sees  the  empty  plate,  and  whistles.) 
Where  is  the  cake?  / 

VOLIA. 
I  —  I  —  I  wanted  It,  I  —  {and  then  suddenly) 

—  Boo-hoo-hoo !     AH  of  a  sudden  I  ate  It  up  — 
without  meaning  to. 

Fedia. 
Instead  of  taking  It  to  nurse,  you  have  eaten 
It  yourself  on  the  way !     Well  I  never !     Mother 
thought  you  wanted  nurse  to  have  the  cake. 

VOLIA. 

I  did  {and  then  suddenly,  without  meaning  to). 

—  Boo-hoo-hoo  I 

146 


ON  REPENTANCE  147 

Fedia. 
You  just  tasted  it,  and  then  you  ate  the  whole 
o£  It.     Well,  I  never!      {Laughs.) 

VOLIA. 

It  IS  all  very  well  for  you  to  laugh,  but  how  am 
I  going  to  tell.  .  .  .  Now  I  can't  go  to  nurse  — 
or  to  mother  either. 

^^7^?~^    Fedia. 
A  nice  m^ss  you  have  made  of  it,  I  must  say. 
Ha,  ha  I     So  you  have  eaten  the  whole  cake  ?     It 
is  no  use  crying.     Just  try  to  think  of  some  way 
of  getting  out  of  it. 

VOLIA. 

I  can't  see  how  I  can.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Fedia. 
Fancy  that  I     {Trying  to  restrain  himself  from 
laughing.     A  pause,) 

VOLIA. 

What  am  I  to  do  now?      I  am  lost.    \{Howls.) 

Fedia. 
Don't  you  care.     Stop  that  howling.    Simply 
go  to  mother  and  tell  her  you  have  eaten  the  cake 
yourself. 

VOLIA. 

That  is  worse. 


148     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Fedia. 
Then  go  and  confess  to  nurse. 

VOLIA. 

How  can  I  ? 

Fedia. 
Listen;  you  wait  here.     I  will  find  nurse  and 
tell  her.     She  won't  mind. 

VOLIA. 

No,  don't.     I  cannot  let  her  know  about  it. 

Fedia.  /^ 

Nonsense.  You  did  it  by  mistake;  it  can't  be 
helped.  I  will  tell  her  in  a  minute.  {Runs 
away.) 

VOLIA. 
Fedia,    Fedia,    wait!     He    is    gone  —  I    just 
tasted  it,  and  then  I  don't  remember  how  I  did  it. 
What  am  I  to  do  now!      (Sobbing.) 

Fedia. 
{comes  running  back.)      Stop  your  bawling,  I  say. 
I  told  you  nurse  would  forgive  you.     She  only 
said,  "Oh,  the  darling!" 

.VOLIA. 

She  IS  not  cross  with  me? 


ON  REPENTANCE  149 

Fedia. 
Not  a  bit.     She  said,   "  I  don't  care  for  the 
cake;  I  would  have  given  it  to  him  anyhow." 

VOLIA. 

But  I  didn't  mean  to  eat  it.     {Cries  again,) 

Fedia. 
Why  are  you  crying  again?     We  won't  tell 
mother.     Nurse  has  quite  forgiven  you. 

M  VOLIA. 

'Nurse  has  forgiven  me.  I  know  she  is  kind 
and  good.  But  me,  I  am  a  wicked  boy,  and  that's 
what  makes  me  cry. 


ON  ART 

Footman;  Housekeeper;  Natasha    {a  little 
girl) 

F00TMAN*_ 


'(with  a  tray,)     Almond  milk  for  the  tea,  and 
rum  — 

HpUSEKEEPER. 

{knitting  a  stocking  and  counting  the  stitches,) 
Twenty-three,  twenty-four  — 

Footman. 
I  say,  Avdotia  VasUIevna,  can't  you  hear? 

Housekeeper. 
I  hear,  I  hear.  I'll  give  It  to  you  presently. 
I  can't  tear  myself  to  pieces  to  do  all  kinds  of 
work  at  the  same  moment.  \To  Natasha.) 
Yes,  darling;  I  will  bring  you  the  prunes  presently. 
Just  wait  a  moment,  till  I  have  given  him  the 
milk.      {Strains  the  almond  milk,) 

Footman. 
[{sitting  down,)      I  tell  you  I  have  seen  something 

150 


ON  ART  151 

to-night.     To  think  that  they  pay  good  money 
for  that  I 

Housekeeper. 
Oh,  you  have  been  to  the  theatre.     You  were 
out  late  to-night. 

Footman. 
An  opera  is  always  a  long  affair.     I  have  al- 
ways to  wait  hours  and  hours.     To-night  they 
were  kind,  and  let  me  In  to  see  the  performance. 

(The  kitchen-maid,  the  manservant 
Pavel  enters  with  the  cream  and  stands 
listening.) 

Housekeeper. 
Then  there  was  singing  to-night? 

Footman. 
Singing  —  humph  I  Just  silly,  loud  screaming, 
not  a  bit  like  real  singing.  "I,"  he  said  —  "I 
love  her  so  much."  And  he  puts  It  all  to  a  tune, 
and  it  is  not  like  anything  under  heaven.  Then 
they  had  a  row,  and  ought  to  have  fought  it  out  ; 
but  they  started  singing  Instead. 

Housekeeper. 

And  yet  IVe  heard  it  costs  a  lot  to  get  seats  for 
the  season. 


152     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Footman. 

Our  box  cost  three  hundred  roubles  for  twelve 
nights. 

Pavel. 
(shaking  his  head.)     Three  hundred!     And  who 
does  that  money  go  to  ? 

Footman. 

Why,  the  people  who  sing  are  paid  for  it*  I 
was  told  a  lady  singer  makes  fifty  thousand  a 
year. 

Pavel. 
You  talk  of  thousands  —  why,  three  hundred  is 
a  pile  of  money  in  the  country.     Some  folks  toil 
their  whole  life  long,  and  can't  even  get  together 
one  hundred. 

(Nina,  a  schoolgirl,  enters  the  ser- 
vants* pantry.) 

Nina. 
Is    Natasha    here?     Why    don't   you    come? 
Mother  wants  you. 

Natasha. 
{munching  a  prune,)     I  am  coming. 

Nina. 
{to  Pavel.)     What  were  you  saying  about  a  hun- 
dred roubles? 


ON  ART  153 

Housekeeper. 

Simeon  (pointing  to  the  footman)  was  just  tell- 
ing us  about  the  singing  he  listened  to  to-night  in 
the  theatre,  and  about  the  lady  singers  being  paid 
such  a  lot  of  money.  That's  what  made  Pavel 
wonder.  Is  that  really  true,  Nina  Mikhailovna, 
that  a  lady  may  get  fifty  thousand  for  her  singing? 

Nina. 

-.  More  than  that.  A  lady  has  been  engaged  to 
smg  in  America  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
roubles.  But  even  better  than  that,  yesterday's 
paper  says  a  musician  has  been  paid  fifty  thousand 
roubles  for  his  finger-nail. 

Pavel. 

The  papers  write  all  sorts  of  nonsense.  That 
couldn't  be.     How  could  he  be  paid  that? 

Nina. 
'{evidently  pleased,)     He  was,  I  tell  you. 

Pavel. 
Just  for  a  finger-nail  ? 

Natasha. 
How  is  that  possible  ? 


154    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Nina. 
He  was  a  pianist,  and  was  Insured  for  that 
amount  In  case  anything  happened  to  his  hand, 
and  he  couldn't  go  on  playing  the  piano, 

Pavel. 

Well,  I'll  be  Mowed  I 

Senichka. 

(a  schoolboy  in  the  upper  class  of  the  school,  eri' 
tering  the  pantry.)  You've  got  a  regular  meet- 
ing here.     What  is  it  all  about? 

(Nina  tells  him  whal  they  have 
been  talking  about.) 

Senichka. 

{with  still  more  complacency  than  Nina.)  That 
story  of  the  nail  Is  nothing  at  all.  Why,  a  dancer 
In  Paris  had  her  foot  insured  for  two  hundred 
thousand  roubles,  In  case  she  sprained  it  and  was 
not  able  to  go  on  dancing. 

Footman. 

That's  them  girls  —  excuse  me  for  mentioning 
it  —  that  work  with  their  legs  without  any  stock- 
ings on. 

Pavel. 
You  call  that  work  I     And  they  are  paid  for  it  I 


ON  ART  155 

Senichka. 
But  every  one  cannot  do  that  kind  of  work  — 
and  she  had  to  study  a  good  many  years. 

Pavel. 
What  did  she  study  that  did  any  good?    Mere 
hopping  about? 

Senichka. 

You  don't  understand.     Art  is  a  great  thing. 
-^^_^  Pavel. 

I  think  it  is  all  nonsense.  People  spend  money 
like  that  because  they  have  such  an  easy  time.  If 
they  had  to  bend  their  backs  as  we  do  to  make 
a  living,  there  wouldn't  be  all  these  singing  and 
dancing  girls.  They  ain't  worth  anything  —  but 
what  is  the  use  of  saying  so? 

Senichka. 
There  we  have  the  outcome  of  ignorance.     To 
him  Beethoven  and  Viardot  and  Rafael  are  utter 
folly. 

Natasha. 
Well,  I  think  what  he  says  is  so. 

Nina. 
Come,  let's  go. 


ON  SCIENCE 

Two  schoolboys,  one  a  pupil  of  the  real  gym- 
nasium* and  the  other  of  the  classical  gymnasium ; 
two  twins y  brothers  of  the  latter;  VOLODIA  an 
PetrushA,  eight  years  of  age. 

Science  Scholar. 
What  do  I  want  with  Latin  and  Greek,  when 
everything  of  any  value  has  been  translated  into 
the  modern  languages? 

Classical  Scholar. 

You  will  never  understand  the  Iliad  unless  you 
read  It  In  Greek. 

Science  Scholar. 
But  I  don't  see  the  use  of  reading  it.    I  don't 
want  to. 

VOLODIA. 

What  is  the  Iliad? 

Science  Scholar. 
A  story. 

*A  school  for  natural  science  without  Greek  and  Latin;  in 
the  classical  gymnasium  Latin  and  Greek  are  taught. 

156 


ON  SCIENCE  157 

Classical  Scholar. 
Yes,  a  story,  but  one  that  has  not  its  equal  in 
the  world. 

Petrusha. 
What  is  It  that  makes  the  story  so  particularly 
good? 

Science  Scholar. 
Nothing.     It  is  just  a  story,  and  nothing  else. 
Classical  Scholar. 

Yes ;  but  you  cannot  really  understand  antiquity 
without  a  knowledge  of  this  story. 

Science  Scholar. 

I  consider  that  a  superstition  just  like  religious 
instruction. 

Classical  Scholar. 

(getting  excited.)  Religious  instruction  is  noth- 
ing but  lies  arid  nonsense,  while  this  is  history  and 
wisdom, 

iVOLODlA. 

Is  religious  instruction  all  nonsense? 

Classical  Scholar. 
Why  do  you  sit  there  listening  to  our  talk? 
You  can't  understand. 

Both  Boys. 
(hurt,)     Why  shouldn't  we? 


158     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Perhaps  we  understand  things  better  than  you 
do.  \ 

Classical  Scholar. 
Very  well.  Just  be  quiet,  and  don't  interrupt. 
( To  the  Science  Scholar.)  You  say  Latin  and 
Greek  is  of  no  use  in  life :  but  that  applies  as  well 
to  bacteriology,  to  chemistry,  to  physics,  and  as- 
tronomy. Why  Is  it  necessary  to  know  anyt^ng 
about  the  distance  of  the  stars,  about  their  size, 
and  all  those  unnecessary  details? 

Science  Scholar. 

Unnecessary?     On  the  contrary,  they  are  very 
necessary  indeed. 

Classical  Scholar. 
What  for? 

Science  Scholar. 
Why,  for  everything.  Take  navigation.  You 
would  think  that  had  not  much  to  do  with  astron- 
omy. But  look  at  the  practical  results  of  science 
—  the  way  it  is  applied  to  agriculture,  to  medicine, 
to  the  industries  — 

Classical  Scholar. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  used  also  in  making 
bombs,  for  purposes  of  war,  and  for  revolutionary 


ON  SCIENCE  159 

objects  as  well.     If  science  contributed  to  the 
moral  improvement,  then  — 

Science  Scholar. 
But  what  about  your  sort  of  knowledge?     Does 
that  raise  the  moral  standard? 

VOLODIA. 

Is  there  any  science  that  makes  people  better? 

Classical  Scholar. 
I  told  you  not  to  interfere  in  the  discussions  of 
grown-up    people.     You    say   nothing   but    silly 
things. 

VoLODiA  and  Petrusha. 
{with   one   voice,)     Not    so    silly    as    you    im- 
agine. .  .  .     Just  tell  us  which  science  teaches 
people  how  to  be  good. 

Science  Scholar. 
There  isn't  such  a  science.     Everybody  has  to 
find  that  out  for  himself. 

Classical  Scholar. 
What  is  the  use  of  talking  to  them  ?    They  don't 
understand. 

Science  Scholar. 
Why  not?     They  might.     How  to  be  good, 
Volodia  and  Petrusha,  Is  not  taught  In  schools. 


i6o    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Well,  If  that  is  not  taught,  it  is  no  use  going  to 
school.  \ 

Petrusha.  / 

When  we  are  grown  up  we  will  not  learn  useless 
things. 

VOLODIA. 

As  for  the  right  way  to  live,  we'll  do  thktbetter 
than  you.  \;^ 

Classical  Scholar. 
(laughing,)     Oh,  the  wisdom  of  that  conclusion! 


ON  GOING  TO  LAW 

A  Peasant,  His  Wife,  a  Kinswoman,  Fedia, 
the  peasants  son,  a  lad  of  nineteen.  Petka,  an- 
other son,  a  hoy  of  nine. 

Father. 
{entering  the  cottage  and  taking  of  his  cloak.) 
What  beastly  weather  I     I  could  hardly  manage  to 
get  home. 

Mother. 
And  such  a  long  way  for  you.     It  must  be 
nearly  fifteen  miles. 

Father. 
Not  less  than  twenty,  I  can  tell  you.      {To  his 
son,  Fedia.)     Take  the  colt  to  the  stable. 

Mother. 

Well,  have  we  won  ? 

Peasant. 

We  have  not,  damn  it  all.  It  will  never  come 
right. 

i6i 


1 62    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Kinswoman.     "  x 
But  what  IS  It  all  about,  cousin?     I  don't  quite 
understand. 

Peasant. 

It  IS  simply  that  Averlan  has  taken  possession 
of  my  vegetable  garden  and  is  holding  it.  And  I 
can't  get  at  him  in  the  right  way.  \. 

Wife. 
That  lawsuit  has  been  dragging  along  over  a 
year  now. 

Kinswoman. 

I  know,  I  know.  I  remember  as  far  back  as 
Lent,  when  the  matter  was  before  the  village 
court.  My  man  told  me  it  had  been  settled  in 
your  favour. 

Peasant. 

That  finished  it,  didn't  it?  But  Averian  ap- 
pealed to  the  head  of  the  Zemstvo,*  and  he  had 
the  whole  business  gone  into  again.  I  then  ap- 
pealed to  the  judge  and  won.  That  ought  to  have 
been  the  end  of  it.  But  it  wasn't.  After  that  he 
won.     Nice  sort  of  judges  they  are ! 

Wife. 
What  are  we  to  do  now  ? 

♦County  council. 


ON  GOING  TO  LAW  163 

Peasant. 
I  won't  stand  his  having  my  property.     I  will 
appeal  to  the  higher  court,  I  have  already  had  a 
talk  with  a  lawyer. 

Kinswoman. 

But  suppose  they  take  his  side  in  the  upper 
court? 

Peasant. 
Then  I'll  go  to  the  Supreme  Court.     V\\  sell 
my  last  cow  before  I'll  give  in  to  that  fat  hound. 
I'll  teach  him  a  lesson. 

Kinswoman. 
A  lot  of  trouble  comes  from  these  trials,  a  lot  of 
trouble,  I  declare  I     And  suppose  he  wins  again? 

Peasant. 
Then  I'll  appeal  to  the  Tsar.     Now  I  had  bet- 
ter go  out  and  give  the  pony  some  hay.     (Exit,) 

Petka. 
Why  do  they  judge  like  that,  some  saying  Aver- 
lan  is  right  and  some  daddy? 

Mother. 
Probably  because  they  don't  know  who  is  right 
themselves. 


1 64    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Petka.         / 
Then  why  ask  them,  If  they  don't  know? 

Mother.    ^ 
Because  nobody  wants  to  give  up  his  property. 

Petka.  \^ 

When  I  grow  up,  I  will  do  like  this :  M  I  have 
a  dispute  with  somebody,  we  will  cast  lots  and  see 
who  wins.  And  that  will  settle  It.  We  always 
settle  It  this  way  with  Akullka. 

Kinswoman. 

Don't  you  think,  cousin,  that  Is  quite  a  good 
way?     One  sin  less,  anyhow. 

Mother. 
Quite  so.     What  a  lot  we  have  spent  on  that 
trial  I     More  than  the  whole  vegetable  garden  Is 
worth.     Oh,  It  is  a  sin,  a  great  sin  I 


ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT 
Children:  Grishka,  Semka,  Jishka. 

JlSHKA. 

Serves  him  right.  Why  did  he  make  his  way 
into  another  person's  corn  loft?  When  he  is  put 
in  prison  that  will  teach  him  not  to  do  it  another 
time. 

Semka. 
Of  course  if  he  has  really  done  it.     But  old 
Mikita  said  Mitrofan  was  run  into  prison  without 
being  guilty. 

Jishka. 
Without  being  guilty?     And  won't   anything 
happen  to  the  man  who  judged  him  falsely? 

Grishka. 

Well,  they  won't  pat  him  on  the  head  for  it,  of 
course.  If  he  hasn't  judged  according  to  law  he 
will  be  punished  too. 

165 


1 66    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Semka. 
Who  will  punish  him?     ^ 

JlSHKA.    ' 
Those  above  him. 

Semka. 
Who  are  above  him?  _y 

Grishka. 
His  superiors. 

JlSHKA. 

And  if  the  superiors  also  make  a  mistake? 
Grishka. 

There  are  higher  powers  above  them,  and  they 
will  be  punished  by  these.  That's  what  the  Tsar 
IS  for. 

JlSHKA. 

But  if  the  Tsar  judges  wrong,  who  is  going  to 
punish  him? 

Grishka. 
Who?    Why  do  you  ask  that?    Don't  you 
know? 

Semka. 
God  will  punish  him. 

JlSHKA. 

God  will  also  punish  him  who  stole  the  corn 
from  the  loft.     Then  why  not  leave  it  to  God  to 


.  ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT      167 

r    punish  those  who  are  guilty?     He  will  not  judge 
wrong. 

Grishka. 
It's  clear  that  that  is  not  possible. 

JlSHKA. 

Why  not? 

Grishka. 
Because  .  •  . 


ON  PROPERTY 


An  old  carpenter  is  mending  the  railings  on  a 
veranda,  A  hoy  of  seven,  the  son  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  is  watching  the  man  working. 

Boy. 
How  well  you  work!     What  is  your  name? 

Carpenter. 

My  name?  They  used  to  call  me  Hrolka,  and 
now  they  call  me  Hrol,  and  even  Hrol  Savlch* 
when  they  speak  respectfully. 

Boy. 
How  well  you  work,  Frol  Savich. 

Carpenter. 
As  long  as  you  have  to  work,  you  may  as  well 
do  good  work. 

Boy. 
Have  you  got  a  veranda  in  your  house? 

*  The  name  is  Frol,  but  the  common  way  of  the  ignorant  masses 
is  to  use  H,  instead  of  F,  It  is  as  if  one  said  Johnny  then  John 
and  then  John  Smith. 

I68 


ON  PROPERTY.  169 

Carpenter. 
In  our  house?  We  have  a  veranda,  my  boy, 
yours  here  is  nothing  to  compare  with  it.  A  ver- 
anda with  no  windows.  And  If  you  step  on  to  It, 
well,  you  can't  believe  your  eyes.  That's  the  kind 
of  veranda  weVe  got. 

Boy. 
You  are  making  fun.     No,  seriously,  tell  me: 
have  you  a  veranda  like  this?     I  want  to  know. 

Carpenter. 
My  dear  child,  how  can  the  likes  of  us  have  a 
veranda?  It's  a  blessing  if  we've  a  roof  over  our 
heads,  and  you  say,  "  a  veranda !  "  I've  been 
thinking  about  having  a  roof  built  ever  since  last 
spring.  I've  just  managed  to  pull  down  the  old 
one,  but  the  new  one  Isn't  finished,  and  the  house 
is  standing  there  and  getting  damp  without  it. 

Boy. 
(surprised,)'    But  why? 

Carpenter. 
Why?     Just  because  I  am  not  able  to  do  it. 

Boy. 
How  so?     If  you  are  able  to  work  for  us? 


170    THE  WISDOM^OF  CHILDREN 
"^~    ^Carpenter. 
I  can  work  all  right  for  you,  but  not  for  my- 
self. 

Boy. 
Why?     I  can't  understand.     Please  explain. 

Carpenter. 
You  will  understand  when  you  are  grown  up. 
I  am  able  to  do  your  work,  but  as  for  my  own,  I 
can't  do  it. 

Boy. 
But  why? 

Carpenter. 
Because  I  need  wood  for  that,  and  I  haven't  got 
any.  It  has  to  be  bought.  I  have  nothing  to  buy 
it  with.  When  I  have  finished  my  work  here, 
and  your  mother  pays  me,  just  you  tell  her  to  pay 
me  well.  Then  I'll  drive  to  the  forest,  get  five 
ash-trees  or  so  to  bring  home  and  finish  my  roof. 

Boy. 
Do  you  mean  you  haven't  a  forest  of  your  own? 

Carpenter. 

We  have  such  big  forests  that  you  can  walk 
three  whole  days  and  not  reach  the  end.  But, 
worse  luck,  they  don't  belong  to  us. 


ON  PROPERTY.  171 

Boy. 

Mother  says  all  her  trouble  comes  from  our 
forest ;  she  has  continual  worries  about  It. 

Carpenter. 
That's  the  worst  of  it.  Your  mother  is  worried 
by  having  too  much  wood,  and  I'm  worried  by 
having  none  at  all.  But  here  I  am  gabbling  with 
you  and  forgetting  my  work.  And  the  likes  of  us 
don't  get  made  much  of  for  doing  that. 

(Resumes  his  work,) 
Boy. 
When  I  grow  up  I  shall  arrange  to  have  just 
the  same  as  everybody  else,  so  that  all  of  us  are 
equal. 

Carpenter. 
Mind  you  grow  up  quickly,  that  I  may  still  be 
alive.     Then,     mind     you,     don't     forget.  .  .  . 
Where  have  I  put  my  plane? 


ON  CHILDREN 

A  Lady  with  her  children  —  a  Schoolboy  of 
fourteen,  a  girl  of  five,  Janichka,  are  walking  in 
the  garden.  An  Old  Peasant  Woman  ap- 
proaches them. 

Lady. 
What  do  you  want,  Matresha  ? 
Old  Woman. 

I  have  come  again  to  ask  a  favour  of  your  lady- 
ship. 

Lady. 
What  IS  It? 

Old  Woman. 

I  am  simply  ashamed  to  speak,  your  ladyship, 
but  that  don't  help.  My  daughter,  the  one  for 
whom  you  stood  godmother,  has  got  another  baby. 
God  has  given  her  a  boy  this  time.  She  sent  me 
to  ask  your  ladyship  If  you  would  do  her  a  favour, 
and  have  the  child  christened  into  our  Orthodox 
faith.* 

*  When  a  lady  in  Russia  stands  godmother  she  gives  the  chris- 
tening robes  and  a  dress  to  thei  mother.  The  godfather  pays  the 
priest  and  gives  his  godchild  a  cross. 

172 


ON  CHILDREN  173 

Lady. 

But  didn*t  she  have  a  child  very  recently? 

Old  Woman. 

Well,  that's  just  as  you  think.    A  year  ago  in 
Lent. 

Lady. 
How  many  grandchildren  have  you  got  now  ? 

Old  Woman. 
I  could  hardly  tell  you,  dear  lady.     All  of  them 
are  still  babes.     Such  a  misfortune ! 

Lady. 
How  many  children  has  your  daughter  ? 

Old  Woman. 
This  IS  the  seventh  child,  your  ladyship,  and  all 
alive.     I  wish  God  had  taken  some  back  to  Him. 

Lady. 
How  can  you  speak  like  that? 

Old  Woman. 
I  can't  help  it.     That's  how  one  comes  to  sin. 
But  then  our  misery  is  so  great.     Well,  your  lady- 
ship, are  you  willing  to  help  us,  and  stand  god- 
mother to  the  child?     Believe  me,  on  my  soul. 


174    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

lady,  we  have  not  even  goL^nything  to  pay  the 
priest ;  bread  Itself  Is  scarce  in  tlie  4iouse.  All  the 
children  are  small.  My  son-in-law  is  working 
away  from  home,  and  I  am  alone  with  my  daugh- 
ter. I  am  old,  and  she  Is  expecting  or  nursing 
the  whole  time,  and  what  work  can  you  ask  her 
to  do  with  all  that?  So  It  Is  me  that  has  to  do 
everything.  And  that  hungry  lot  all  the  while 
asking  for  food. 

Lady. 
Are  there  really  seven  children? 

Old  Woman. 

Seven,  your  ladyship,  sure.  Just  the  eldest  girl 
begins  to  help  a  bit;  all  the  rest  are  little. 

Lady. 
But  why  do  they  have  such  a  lot  of  children  ? 

Old  Woman. 

How  can  one  help  that,  dear  lady?  He  comes 
now  and  then  for  a  short  stay,  or  just  for  a  feast 
day.  They  are  young,  and  he  lives  near  in  town. 
I  wish  he  had  to  go  somewhere  far  away. 

Lady. 
That's  the  way!     Some  people  are  sad  because 


ON  CHILDREN  175 

they  have  no  children,  or  their  children  die,  and 
you  complain  of  having  too  many. 

Old  Woman. 
They  are  too  many.     We  have  not  the  means 
to  keep  them.     Well,  your  ladyship,  may  I  cheer 
her  up  with  your  consent? 

Lady. 
Well,  I  will  stand  godmother  to  this  one  like 
the  others.     It  is  a  boy,  you  say? 

Old  Woman. 
It's  a  small  baby,  but  very  strong;  he's  got 
good  lungs.     What  day  do  you  order  the  chris- 
tening to  be  ? 

Lady. 
Whenever  you  like. 

(Old  Woman  thanks  her  and  goes.) 

Janichka. 
Mother,  why  is  it  that  some  people  have  chil- 
dren and  some  have  not?    You  have,  Matresha, 
has,  but  Parasha  hasn't  any. 

Lady. 
Parasha  is  not  married.     People  have  children 
when   they  are  married.     They  marry,   become 
husband  and  wife,  and  then  only  children  come. 


176    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Janichka. 
Do  they  always  get  children  then? 

Lady. 
No,  not  always.     Our  cook  has  a  wife,  but  they 
have  no  children. 

Janichka. 
Couldn't  it  be  arranged  that  only  those  who 
want  children  should  have  them,  and  those  who 
don't  want  them  should  have  none? 

Schoolboy. 
What  nonsense  you  talk  I 

Janichka. 
That  is  not  nonsense  at  all.  I  only  thought 
that  if  Matresha's  daughter  doesn't  want  to  have 
children,  it  ought  to  be  arranged  so  that  she 
shouldn't  have  any.  Couldn't  it  be  arranged, 
mother  ? 

Schoolboy. 
Have  I  not  told  you  not  to  talk  nonsense  about 
things  you  know  nothing  about? 

Janichka. 
Mother,  could  it  be  arranged  as  I  say? 

Lady. 
I  don't  know:  we  never  know  about  that.     It 
all  depends  on  the  will  of  God. 


ON  CHILDREN  177 

Janichka. 
But  How  do  children  come  into  the  world  ? 

y  Schoolboy. 

The  goat  brings  them. 

Janichka. 
(hurt.)  Why  do  you  tease  me?  I  don't  see 
anything  to  laugh  at  in  what  I  am  saying.  But  I 
do  think  that  since  Matresha  says  they  are  worse 
off  for  having  children,  it  ought  to  be  managed  so 
that  no  children  should  be  born  to  her.  There  is 
Nurse  who  has  none. 

Lady. 
But  she  Is  not  married. 

Janichka. 
Then  all  those  that  do  not  care  for  children 
ought  not  to  marry.  As  It  is  now,  children  are 
born  and  people  have  nothing  to  feed  them  with. 
(The  mother  exchanges  a  glance  with  her  son,  and 
does  not  answer.)  When  I  am  grown  up  I  will 
marry  by  all  means,  and  I  shall  see  that  I  have  one 
girl  and  one  boy,  and  no  more.  Do  you  think  it 
Is  nice  when  children  are  born  and  people  don't 
care  for  them?  As  for  mine,  I  shall  love  them 
dearly.  Don't  you  think  so,  mother?  I  will  go 
and  ask  Nurse.      (Exit.) 


178     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Lady. 

{to  her  son.)  Yes,  truth  flows  from  the  lips  of 
children.  What  she  says  Is  a  great  truth.  If 
people  would  understand  how  serious  marriage  Is, 
instead  of  regarding  It  as  amusement  —  If  they 
would  marry  not  for  their  own  sake,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  children  —  then  all  these  horrors 
would  not  exist.  There  would  be  no  children  suf- 
fering from  neglect  or  distress,  nor  would  such 
cases  happen  as  that  of  Matresha's  daughter, 
where  children  bring  sorrow  in  place  of  joy. 


z::^ 


ON  EDUCATION. 

The  Yard  Porter  is  cleaning  the  handles  of 
the  doors,  Katia,  a  girl  of  seven,  is  building  a 
house  with  blocks,  Nicholas,  a  schoolboy  of 
fifteen,  enters  with  a  book  and  throws  it  angrily 
on  the  floor, 

Nicholas. 
To  the  devil  with  that  damned  school  1 

Porter. 
What  IS  the  matter  with  it? 
Nicholas. 
Again  a  bad  mark.     That  means  more  new 
trouble.     Damn  it  all  I     What  do  I  want  their 
cursed  geography   for?     California  —  why  is  it 
necessary  to  know  about  California? 

Porter. 
What  will  they  do  to  you  ? 

Nicholas. 
They  will  keep  me  another  year  in  that  same 
old  class. 

179 


1 80    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Porter. 
Then  why  don't  you  learn  your  lessons? 

Nicholas. 
Why?  Because  I  can't  learn  the  stupid  things. 
Damn  it  all!  {Throwing  himself  on  a  chair.) 
I'll  go  and  tell  mother.  I'll  tell  her  I  can't  do  it. 
Let  them  do  whatever  they  like  but  I  can't  do  it. 
And  if  after  that  she  doesn't  take  me  out  of  school 
I  will  run  away  from  home.     I  swear  I  will. 

Porter. 
But  where  will  you  go  ? 

Nicholas. 
Just  away.     I  will  look  out  for  a  place  as  a 
coachman,  or  a  yard  porter.     Anything  is  better 
than  having  to  learn  that  cursed  nonsense. 

Porter. 
But  to  be  a  yard  porter  is  not  an  easy  job 
either,  I  can  tell  you.     A  porter  has  to  get  up 
early,  chop  wood,  carry  it  in,  make  fires  — 

Nicholas. 

Whew!  {Whistles.)  But  that  is  like  a  holi- 
day. I  love  chopping  wood.  I  simply  adore  it. 
No,  that  would  not  stop  me.  No,  you  just  try 
what  it  is  to  learn  geography. 


^^x,       ON  EDUCATION  i8i 

Porter. 
You're  right  there.     But  why  do  you  learn  it? 
What  use  is  it  to  you?     Is  it  that  they  make  you 
do  it? 

Nicholas. 
I  wish  I  knew  why.     It  is  of  no  use  whatever. 
But  that's  the  rule.     They  think  one  cannot  do 
without  it. 

Porter. 
I  dare  say  it  is  necessary  for  you  in  order  to 
become  an  official,  to  get  honours,  high  appoint- 
ments, like  your  father  and  uncle. 

Nicholas. 

But  since  I  don't  care  for  all  that. 

Katia. 

Since  he  does  not  care ! 

{Enter  Mother,  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand.) 

Mother. 
I  have  just  heard  from  the  director  of  the 
school  that  you  have  got  a  bad  mark  again.     That 
won't  do,  Nikolenka.     It  must  be  one  thing  or 
the  other :  learn  or  not  learn. 

Nicholas. 
I'll  stick  to  the  one:  I  cannot,  I  cannot,  I  can- 


1 82    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

not  learn.     For  God's  sake,  let  me  go.     I  cannot 
learn. 

Mother. 
You  cannot  learn? 

Nicholas. 
I  cannot.     It  won't  get  Into  my  head. 

Mother. 
That  IS  because  your  head  is  full  of  nonsense. 
Don't  think  about  all  your  stupid  things,  but  con- 
centrate your  mind  on  the  lessons  you  have  to 
learn. 

Nicholas. 
Mother,  I  am  talking  seriously.     Take  me  away 
from  school.     I  wish  for  nothing  else  In  the  world 
but  to  get  rid  of  that  dreadful  school,  of  that 
treadmill  I     I  can't  stand  it. 

Mother. 
But  what  would  you  do  out  of  school? 

Nicholas. 
That  is  my  own  business. 

Mother. 
It  is  not  your  own  business,  but  mine.     I  have 
to  answer  to  God  for  you.     I  must  give  you  an 
education. 


V 


y  ON  EDUCATION  183 

•  Nicholas. 

But  since  I  cannot. 

Mother. 
(severely,)  What  nonsense  to  say  you  cannot. 
For  the  last  time,  I  will  speak  to  you  like  a  mother. 
I  beseech  you  to  mend  your  ways  and  to  do  what 
is  required  of  you.  If  you  will  not  obey  me  this 
time  I  shall  take  other  measures. 

Nicholas. 
I  tell  you,  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  learn. 

Mother. 
Take  care,  Nicholas. 

Nicholas. 
Why  should  I  take  care?     Why  do  you  torture 
me?     Don't  you  see  you  do  I 

Mother. 
I  forbid  you  to  speak  like  that.     How  dare 
you  I     Go  away  I     You  will  see  — 

Nicholas. 
Very  well — I   will  go.     I   am  not  afraid  of 
whatever  comes,  and  I  don't  want  anything  from 
you.      (Dashes  out  of  the  room  and  bangs  the 
door,) 


1 84    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Mother. 
(to  herself.)  How  unhappy  he  makes  me.  I 
know  exactly  how  it  has  all  come  about.  It  is  all 
because  he  does  not  think  about  the  things  he 
ought  to  do,  and  his  head  is  full  of  nothing  but 
his  own  stupid  interests,  his  dogs,  and  his  hens. 

Katia. 
But,  mother,  you  remember  the  tale  you  told 
me:  how  Impossible  It  is  not  to  think  about  the 
white  polar  bear  when  you  are  told  not  to. 

Mother. 
I  am  not  speaking  of  that;  I  say  a  boy  has  to 
learn  when  he  is  told  to. 

Katia. 
But  he  says  he  cannot. 

Mother. 
That's  nonsense. 

Katia. 
But  he  does  not  say  he  is  not  willing  to  do  any 
work   whatever.     He    only    objects    to    learning 
geography.     He  wants  to  work,  to  be  a  coachman, 
a  yard-porter. 

Mother. 
If  he  had  been  a  yard-porter's  son  he  might 


ON  EDUCATION  185 

become  one  himself.     But  being  your  father's  son 
he  must  learn. 

Katia. 
But  he  does  not  want  to. 

Mother. 
Whether  he  wants  to  or  not  he  must  obey. 

Katia. 

And  if  he  simply  cannot  learn? 

Mother. 
Take  care  that  you  are  not  like  him  yourself. 

Katia. 
That's  just  what  I  want  to  be.     I  shall  not,  on 
any  condition,  learn  what  I  do  not  wish  to. 

Mother. 
Then  you  will  grow  up  a  fool. 

Katia. 
And  when  I  am  grown  up,  and  have  children,  I 
will  never  compel  them  to  learn.     If  they  want  to 
they  may  learn,  if  not,  let  them  do  without  learn- 
ing. 

Mother. 
When  you  are  grown  up,  you  will  be  sure  to 
have  changed  your  mind. 


1 86    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Katia. 
I  shall  certainly  not. 

Mother. 
You  will. 

Katia. 
No,  I  shall  not,  I  shall  not. 
Mother. 
Then  you  will  be  a  fool. 

Katia. 
Nurse  says  God  wants  fools  also. 


THE  POSTHUMOUS  PAPERS  OF  THE 
HERMIT,  FEDOR  KUSMICH 


THE    POSTHUMOUS    PAPERS    OF   THE 
HERMIT,  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

There  were  strange  tales  about  the  old  hermit, 
Fedor  Kusmlch,  who  appeared  In  Siberia  In  the 
year  1836,  and  lived  there  In  various  places  dur- 
ing the  space  of  twenty-seven  years.  Even  before 
he  died  It  used  to  be  said  of  him  that  he  concealed 
his  indentity  —  that  he  was  no  other  than  the 
Emperor  Alexander  I.,  but  after  his  death  these 
tales  spread  and  came  to  be  more  firmly  believed. 
That  he  positively  was  Alexander  I.  was  consid- 
ered a  fact  not  only  among  the  commoner  people, 
but  also  In  the  highest  circles;  and  even  In  the 
royal  family  In  Alexander  III.'s  lifetime.  It  was 
also  believed  by  the  learned  historian,  Shilder, 
who  wrote  a  history  of  his  reign. 

The  Incidents  which  gave  rise  to  these  rumours 
were,  firstly,  that  the  Emperor  died  quite  suddenly 
without  any  serious  Illness;  secondly,  that  it  hap- 
pened away  from  everybody  In  the  obscure  town 
of  Vaganrog;  thirdly.  It  was  declared  by  those 
who  had  chanced  to  see  him  In  his  coffin  that  he 
had  changed  to  such  an  extent  as  to  be  hardly 

189 


I90  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

recognisable,  and  was  In  consequence  kept  cov- 
ered and  not  shown  to  any  one;  fourthly,  he  was 
known  to  have  both  said  and  written  a  great 
many  times,  especially  in  his  later  years,  that  he 
desired  nothing  better  than  to  give  up  his  throne 
and  retire  from  the  world.  A  fifth  circumstance, 
about  which  very  little  is  known.  Is  the  fact  that 
In  the  official  record  describing  his  body.  It  was 
stated  that  the  whole  of  his  back  was  covered  with 
black  and  blue  marks,  a  thing  hardly  credible  on 
the  Emperor's  delicate  skin. 

The  reasons  why  Kusmlch  In  particular  was 
believed  to  be  the  Emperor  In  hiding,  were  first 
of  all,  that  In  height,  build,  and  appearance  he  was 
so  much  like  the  monarch.  Everybody  (even  the 
palace  servants)  who  had  seen  Alexander  I.  and 
his  portraits,  was  struck  by  the  great  resemblance 
between  him  and  the  old  man,  both  In  regard  to 
age  and  the  characteristic  stoop.  Secondly,  al- 
though Kusmlch  passed  as  a  nameless  tramp,  he 
was  nevertheless  familiar  with  foreign  languages, 
and  In  his  bearing  there  was  a  certain  majestic 
courtesy  betokening  a  man  accustomed  to  the 
highest  poslton.  Thirdly,  he  never  revealed  his 
identity  to  any  one,  but  from  certain  expressions 
that  escaped  him  unawares.  It  could  plainly  be  seen 
that  he  was  a  man  who  had  once  ranked  high 
above  others.     Fourthly,  he  had  destroyed  all  his 


FEDOR^KUSMICH  191 

papers,  of  which  but  one  ]page  remained,  bearing 
a  mysterious  sign  and  the  initials  A.  P.  Lastly, 
In  spite  of  his  great  piety,  the  old  man  never  went 
to  confession.  When  the  bishop,  during  his  visit, 
tried  to  Induce  him  to  fulfil  this  duty  which  was 
enjoined  by  the  Church,  Kusmich  said,  "  If  I  re- 
frained from  telling  the  truth  about  myself  In  con- 
fession, I  should  astonish  all  In  heaven;  if  I  dis- 
closed who  I  was,  I  should  astonish  all  on  earth." 
All  these  doubts  and  conjectures  were  cleared 
up  by  the  discovery  of  the  old  man's  diary,  which 
begins  as  follows :  — 


God  bless  my  dearest  friend,  Ivan  Gregorlevich, 
for  this  delightful  retreat.  I  am  not  worthy  of 
his  kindness,  nor  of  God's  mercy.  Here  I  am  at 
peace.  There  are  less  people  to  disturb  me,  and 
I  am  left  alone  with  the  recollections  of  my  past 
wickedness  and  with  my  Maker.  I  will  take  ad- 
vantage of  this  solitude  to  relate  the  whole  story 
of  my  life.     It  may  prove  a  warning  to  others. 

For  forty-seven  years  I  lived  amidst  the  most 
terrible  temptations,  and  not  only  made  no  attempt 
to  resist  them,  but  abandoned  myself  to  them  — 
I  sinned  and  made  others  sin.  At  last  the  Lord 
had  mercy  on  me.     The   loathsomeness   of  my 


192  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

life  was  revealed  to  me  in  all  Its  horrors,  and 
He  delivered  me  from  evil;  if  not  wholly,  at  any 
rate  from  active  participation  In  It.  What  Inner 
anguish  I  went  through,  and  what  took  place  In 
my  soul  when  I  realised  my  transgressions  and 
felt  the  need  of  atonement,  not  merely  by  faith 
but  by  deeds  and  by  suffering,  I  will  relate  In  due 
course.  I  will  now  describe  the  way  In  which  I 
escaped  from  my  position,  leaving  In  my  place  the 
corpse  of  a  soldier,  who  had  been  tortured  to  death 
in  my  name,  and  then  proceed  to  relate  my  whole 
story  from  the  very  beginning. 

It  happened  like  this :  In  Vaganrog  I  continued 
the  same  life  of  dissipation  I  had  been  leading  for 
the  past  twenty-four  years.  I  am  the  greatest  of 
all  criminals.  I  murdered  my  own  father;  I 
caused  the  death  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
men  in  wars  of  my  making.  I  am  a  base  libertine, 
a  mean  wretch,  who  believed  in  other  people's 
flatteries,  and  who  considered  myself  the  saviour 
of  Europe,  a  benefactor  of  mankind,  a  model  of 
perfection,  tin  heureux  hasard,  as  I  once  said  to 
Madame  Stahl.  But  in  spite  of  it  all,  the  Lord 
In  His  mercy  did  not  quite  forsake  me,  and  the 
ever  watchful  voice  of  conscience  gave  me  no  rest. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  everything  and  everybody 
were  wrong;  I  only  was  right,  and  every  one  failed 
to  see  It.     I  turned  to  God.     At  first,  with  Fotey's 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  193 

help,  I  prayed  to  the  God  of  the  Orthodox  Church ; 
then  I  turned  to  the  Catholic;  then  to  the  Protes- 
tant with  Parrot;  then  to  the  god  of  the  Mystics 
with  Krudener;  but  I  only  prayed  that  others 
might  see  and  be  filled  with  admiration  of  me.  I 
used  to  despise  everybody,  yet  the:  opinion  of  the 
very  people  I  despised  was  the  one  thing  of  im- 
portance to  me  —  the  only  thing  for  which  I  lived, 
and  which  guided  all  my  actions.  It  was  terrible 
to  be  left  alone.  Still  more  terrible  to  be  alone 
with  her  —  with  my  wife.  Consumptive,  narrow- 
minded,  deceitful,  capricious,  spiteful,  hypocriti- 
cal, she  did  more  to  poison  my  life  than  anything 
else.  Nous  etions  censes  to  spend  our  new  lune 
de  miel,  a  very  hell  clothed  In  decent  garb,  too 
horrible  to  think  of. 

I  felt  particularly  wretched  on  one  occasion.  I 
had  received  a  letter  from  Arakcheev  the  night 
before.  In  which  he  informed  me  about  the  assassi- 
nation of  his  mistress,  and  spoke  of  his  utter  grief 
and  despair.  Strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  his  con- 
stant subtle  flattery,  I  liked  him.  It  was  not 
altogether  flattery,  perhaps,  but  a  real  dog-like 
devotion,  which  began  even  in  my  father's  time, 
when  we  both  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  him 
unknown  to  my  grandmother.  This  devotion  of 
his  made  me  love  him  —  if  I  loved  any  man  at  that 
time  —  although  the  word  love  can  hardly  be  used 


194  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

in  connection  with  such  a  monster.  What  drew 
me  to  him  particularly  was  the  fact  that  not  only 
had  he  no  hand  In  my  father's  death,  as  so  many 
others  had  who  became  hateful  to  me  afterwards 
as  accomplices  In  my  crime,  but  he  had  been  de- 
voted alike  to  him  and  to  me.  However,  of  this 
later. 

Strange  to  say,  the  murder  of  the  beautiful, 
wicked  Nastasia  —  she  was  a  sensuous  beauty  — ' 
had  the  effect  of  arousing  all  my  desires  so  that  I 
could  not  sleep  the  whole  night.  The  fact  that 
my  consumptive  wife,  whom  I  loathed,  was  lying 
in  the  room  next  but  one  to  me,  coupled  with 
thoughts  of  Mary  Narlshkin,  who  had  thrown  me 
over  for  an  Insignificant  diplomat,  vexed  and  tor- 
mented me  still  more.  Both  my  father  and  I 
seemed  to  have  been  doomed  to  be  jealous  of  the 
Gagarins.  But  I  was  carried  away  again.  I 
could  not  sleep  the  whole  of  that  night.  With  the 
first  signs  of  dawn  I  pulled  up  my  blind,  slipped 
on  a  white  dressing-gown,  and  rang  for  my  valet. 
Every  one  was  still  asleep.  I  dressed,  put  on  a 
civilian  overcoat  and  cap,  and  went  out  past  the 
sentinels  Into  the  street. 

It  was  a  cool,  autumn  morning,  the  sun  was  just 
rising  over  the  sea.  I  felt  revived  In  the  fresh 
air,  and  my  depressing  thoughts  left  me.  I  turned 
my  steps  towards  the  sea.     The  first  rays  of  the 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  195 

rising  sun  were  dancing  about  on  its  surface.  I 
had  barely  reached  the  green-coloured  house  at  the 
corner  when  I  was  attracted  by  sounds  of  drum- 
ming and  piping  from  the  square.  I  listened  for 
a  moment,  and  guessed  that  a  punishment  was 
going  on,  that  some  one  was  running  the  gauntlet. 
I  had  frequently  sanctioned  this  form  of  punish- 
ment, but  had  never  seen  It  before.  All  at  once, 
as  though  at  the  instigation  of  Satan  himself,  a 
picture  rose  up  In  my  mind  of  the  beautiful  Nas- 
tasia  who  had  been  murdered,  and  of  the  soldier's 
body  as  It  was  being  lashed  with  sticks,  the  two 
mingling  together  in  one  maddening  sensation. 
I  tried  to  recall  this  punishment  in  the  Semljonov 
regiment,  amongst  the  military  settlers,  hundreds 
of  whom  had  been  flogged  to  death  in  this  way, 
and  was  suddenly  seized  by  an  overwhelming  de- 
sire to  witness  this  sight.  As  I  was  in  civilian 
garb,  It  was  quite  possible  for  me  to  do  so.  The 
beating  of  the  drum  and  the  sound  of  the  pipes 
grew  louder  as  I  drew  nearer  the  square.  Being 
short-sighted,  I  could  not  see  very  well  without 
my  glasses,  but  I  could  just  make  out  a  tall  figure 
with  a  white  back,  marching  along  between  two 
rows  of  soldiers.  When  I  joined  the  crowd  stand- 
ing behind,  I  got  out  my  glasses,  and  could  see 
everything  that  was  going  on  distinctly.  A  tall 
man  with  his  bare  arms  tied  to  a  bayonet,  his  bare 


196  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

back  —  on  which  the  blood  was  beginning  to  show 
Itself  —  slightly  bent,  was  walking  down  an 
avenue  of  soldiers  armed  with  sticks.  This  man 
was  the  Image  of  myself  —  my  double!  The 
same  height,  stooping  shoulders,  bald  head,  the 
same  kind  of  whiskers  without  a  moustache,  the 
same  cheek-bones,  mouth,  and  blue  eyes.  But 
there  was  no  smile  on  those  lips  that  opened  and 
contorted  with  pain  at  the  blows,  no  tender,  caress- 
ing expression  In  those  eyes  that  protruded  horri- 
bly, now  closing,  now  opening. 

I  recognised  him  at  once.  It  was  Strumensky, 
a  corporal  In  the  third  company  of  the  Semljonov 
regiment,  well  known  to  the  guards  by  his  likeness 
to  me.  They  used  to  call  him  Alexander  II.  In 
fun.  I  knew  that  he  had  been  transferred  to  the 
garrison,  together  with  some  other  rebels,  and  had 
most  likely  tried  to  escape  or  something  of  the 
sort,  and  having  been  caught,  was  undergoing  pun- 
ishment. I  confirmed  this  afterwards.  I  stood 
as  one  petrified,  gazing  at  the  unfortunate  man,  as 
he  was  marching  along  under  the  blows.  Sud- 
denly I  noticed  that  the  crowd  was  staring  at  me, 
some  people  stepping  aside,  others  approaching 
nearer.  I  had  evidently  been  recognised;  I  turned 
my  steps  quickly  homewards.  The  drumming  and 
piping  continued,  so  I  gathered  that  the  flogging 
was  not  yet  over. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  197 

My  first  sensation  on  getting  away  was  that  my 
sympathies  ought  to  be  on  the  side  of  those  who 
were  Inflicting  the  punishment;  at  any  rate,  that 
I  ought  to  acknowledge  that  what  they  were  doing 
was  right,  good,  and  necessary.  But  I  could  not 
do  this,  and  was  at  the  same  time  conscious  that 
if  I  did  not  acknowledge  it,  I  must  admit  that  my 
whole  life  had  been  wrong  from  beginning  to  end, 
and  that  I  ought  to  do  what  I  had  long  ago 
wanted  to  do  —  throw  up  everything,  go  away, 
and  disappear. 

I  was  completely  overwhelmed  by  this  sensation. 
I  tried  to  fight  against  it,  now  assuring  myself  that 
the  thing  was  right,  a  grievous  necessity  that  could 
not  be  dispensed  with;  now  feeling  that  I  ought 
to  be  In  the  unfortunate  man's  place.  Strange  to 
say,  I  did  not  pity  the  man  in  the  least.  Instead 
of  doing  anything  to  stop  the  proceeding,  I  has- 
tened home  merely  to  avoid  recognition.  Soon  the 
drumming  ceased,  and  the  disturbing  sensation 
somehow  left  me.  I  had  some  tea  on  reaching 
home,  and  received  Volkonsky  with  his  report. 
Then  there  was  breakfast,  the  usual  burdensome, 
insincere  relations  with  my  wife ;  then  DIbich,  and 
another  report  dealing  with  certain  Informations 
about  a  secret  society.  With  God's  grace  I  will 
deal  with  this  more  fully  in  its  proper  place.  I 
will  merely  say  now  that  I  received  the  informa- 


198  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

tion  with  outward  composure.  I  continued  in  a 
more  or  less  calm  state  until  dinner  came  to  an  end, 
when  I  went  Into  my  study,  lay  down  on  the 
couch,  and  dozed  off.  I  had  scarcely  been  asleep 
for  five  minutes  when  I  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  a  powerful  shock.  I  distinctly  heard  the  beat- 
ing of  the  drum,  the  sound  of  the  pipes  and  Stru- 
mensky's  cries.  I  saw  his  agonised  face,  or  mine 
—  I  was  not  quite  sure  which ;  whether  it  was  Stru- 
mensky  or  myself  —  and  the  grim  contorted  faces 
of  the  soldiers  and  officers.  I  remained  In  this 
trance  for  a  short  time,  and  when  I  came  to  my- 
self put  on  my  hat  and  sword,  and  went  out  say- 
ing that  I  was  going  for  a  walk.  I  knew  where 
the  military  hospital  was  situated,  and  directed  my 
steps  straight  there.  My  appearance  caused  a 
great  tumult  as  usual.  The  chief  doctor  and  head 
of  the  staff  came  running  up  breathless.  I  told 
them  that  I  wished  to  inspect  the  wards.  On  my 
round  I  caught  sight  of  Strumensky's  bald  head  in 
the  second  ward.  He  was  lying  face  downwards, 
his  head  resting  on  his  arm,  moaning  pitifully. 
"  He's  been  punished  for  desertion,"  some  one 
said  to  me. 

*'  Ah !  "  I  exclaimed,  with  my  usual  gesture  of 
approval,  and  walked  on. 

The  next  day  I  sent  a  messenger  to  ask  how 
he  was,  and  learnt  that  he  had  received  the  sacra- 
ment and  was  dying. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  199 

It  was  my  brother  Michaers  name-day;  there 
was  a  special  service  and  parade.  I  feigned  to  be 
unwell,  as  a  result  of  my  recent  journey  from  the 
Crimea,  and  did  not  go  to  church.  DIblch  came 
again  and  continued  his  report  about  the  conspir- 
acy In  the  second  army.  He  drew  my  attention  to 
what  Count  VItt  had  said  before  my  Crimean  visit, 
and  to  the  Information  that  had  been  received  from 
Corporal  Sherwood.  Whilst  listening  to  DIblch, 
and  seeing  the  Immense  Importance  he  attached  to 
these  plots  and  conspiracies,  I  was  suddenly  struck 
by  the  full  significance  of  the  revolution  that  had 
taken  place  within  me.  All  these  people  were 
conspiring  to  change  the  form  of  government, 
to  set  up  a  constitution,  the  very  thing  I  had  my- 
self wanted  to  do  twenty  years  ago.  I  had 
made  and  unmade  constitutions  In  Europe,  but 
was  there  one  soul  the  better  for  It?  What  right 
had  I  to  take  such  a  task  upon  myself?  In  re- 
ality external  life,  external  affairs  and  participa- 
tion In  them  were  unimportant,  unnecessary,  and 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  me.  Had  I  not 
participated  In  them  to  the  full,  changed  the  fates 
of  European  nations?  I  suddenly  realised  that 
this  did  not  concern  me,  that  the  only  thing  of 
Importance  to  me,  was  myself  —  my  soul.  My 
former  Ideas  about  abdication  came  back  to  me 
with  new  force.  This  time  It  was  without  any 
affectation,  without  any  desire  to  grieve  others, 


200  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

to  astonish  the  world,  or  to  add  to  my  own  ag- 
grandisement—  all  the  things  that  had  prompted 
me  formerly;  but  It  was  with  a  real  sincerity,  not 
for  the  sake  of  Impressing  others,  but  for  myself 
—  for  the  needs  of  my  own  soul.  It  seemed  as  If 
I  had  gone  through  my  brilliant  career  (In  the 
worldly  sense  of  course),  In  order  to  return  to 
that  dream  of  my  youth,  which  had  reached  me 
through  penitence.  I  had  come  back  to  It  with  no 
feeling  of  vanity  or  desire  for  self  glorification;  it 
was  for  my  true  self  alone,  for  God.  In  my  youth 
the  Idea  had  not  been  quite  clear  to  me,  but  now 
it  seemed  to  me  Impossible  to  go  on  living  as  I 
had  been  doing.  Nevertheless  how  could  I  es- 
cape? I  no  longer  wished  to  astonish  the  world, 
but  on  the  contrary  wanted  to  go  away  quietly, 
unknown  to  any  one  —  to  go  away  and  suffer.  I 
was  so  filled  with  joy  at  the  Idea  that  I  began 
considering  ways  and  means  of  accomplishing  It, 
and  used  all  the  resources  of  my  mind  and  my 
peculiar  subtleness  to  bring  it  about.  Curiously 
enough  It  was  not  nearly  so  difficult  as  I  had 
anticipated.  My  plan  was  to  feign  a  dangerous 
illness,  bribe  the  doctor,  get  Strumensky,  who  was 
dying,  put  In  my  place,  and  flee  without  disclosing 
my  Identity  to  any  one. 

Everything   turned   out    favourably.     On    the 
9th,  by  some  peculiar  fate,  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever.     I 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  201 

stayed  in  bed  for  about  a  week,  during  which  time 
I  considered  my  idea  thoroughly,  and  became 
more  confirmed  in  it.  On  the  i6th  I  got  up  feel- 
ing quite  well  again. 

I  shaved  as  usual  on  that  day  and  cut  myself 
rather  badly.  I  bled  a  great  deal,  and  feeling 
faint  dropped  down  on  the  floor.  People  came 
rushing  in,  and  I  was  immediately  raised.  I  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  the  incident  might  prove 
useful  to  my  purpose,  and  though  I  had  quite  re- 
covered, pretended  to  be  very  weak,  and  going 
back  to  bed  and  asked  for  Doctor  Villier's  assist- 
ant. I  knew  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
bribe  Villier,  but  I  had  hopes  of  his  assistant.  I 
told  him  of  my  purpose  and  offered  him  eighty 
thousand  roubles,  if  he  would  do  everything  I 
wanted  of  him. 

I  had  hit  on  the  following  plan,  having  heard 
that  Strumensky  was  not  expected  to  live  through 
the  day,  I  pretended  to  be  irritated  and  annoyed 
with  everybody,  and  allowed  no  one  to  come  near 
me  except  the  young  doctor,  whom  I  had  bribed. 
He  was  to  bring  Strumensky's  body  hidden  in  a 
bath,  put  him  in  my  place,  and  announce  my  sud- 
den death.  It  all  happened  as  we  had  arranged 
it,  and  on  the  7th  day  of  November  I  was  a  free 
man. 

Strumensky's  body  was  buried  in  great  state. 


202  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

My  brother  Nicholas  came  to  the  throne,  con- 
demning the  conspirators  to  hard  labour.  I  met 
several  of  them  later  in  Siberia.  I  have  suffered 
very  little  in  comparison  to  the  enormity  of  my 
crime,  and  have  enjoyed  the  greatest  of  all  hap- 
piness.    But  I  will  speak  of  this  in  due  course. 

An  old  man  of  seventy-two,  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  fully  realising  the  vanity  of  my  former  life 
and  the  deep  significance  of  my  present  one  as 
a  wanderer,  I  will  now  endeavour  to  relate  the 
whole  story  of  the  past. 

II 

THE    STORY   OF   MY    LIFE 

December   12,   1849, 
Near  Krasnorechinsk,   Siberia. 

To-day  is  my  birthday.  I  have  reached  my 
seventy-second  year.  Exactly  seventy-two  years 
ago  I  was  born  in  the  Winter  Palace  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. My  mother,  the  Empress,  was  then  the 
Grand  Duchess  Maria  Fedorovna. 

I  slept  well  last  night,  and  feel  better  than  I  did 
yesterday.  I  have  come  out  of  my  spiritual  torpor 
and  can  turn  once  more  to  God.  During  the 
night  I  prayed  in  the  darkness,  and  a  conscious- 
ness came  upon  me  that  my  one  and  only  purpose  in 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  203 

life  was  to  serve  Him  who  had  sent  me  into  the 
world. 

It  Is  within  my  own  power  either  to  serve  or 
not  to  serve  Him.  Serving  Him  I  add  to  my  own 
good  and  to  the  good  of  the  whole  world;  not 
serving  Him  I  forfeit  my  own  good,  and  deprive 
the  world  of  that  good  which  was  In  my  power 
to  create;  not,  however,  of  Its  potential  good. 
What  I  ought  to  have  done,  others  will  do  after 
me,  and  His  will  shall  be  fulfilled.  This  Is  the 
meaning  of  free  will.  But  If  He  knows  every- 
thing that  Is  to  be,  If  all  Is  ordained  by  Him,  then 
how  can  there  be  free  will?  I  do  not  know. 
This  Is  the  boundary  of  thought  and  the  begin- 
ning of  prayer.  Let  Thy  will  be  done,  O  Lord. 
Help  us.  Come  and  dwell  within  us.  Or  more 
simply:  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  I  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us !  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  and 
forgive  us  our  sins  I  Words  fall  me,  O  Lord,  but 
Thou  knowest  what  Is  In  my  heart,  for  Thou 
dwellest  In  It.  And  so  I  fell  asleep.  I  was  rest- 
less as  usual,  woke  up  several  times,  and  had  bad 
dreams.  I  seemed  to  be  swimming  In  the  sea, 
and  wondering  how  It  was  that  I  lay  so  high  above 
the  water;  why  the  water  did  not  cover  me.  The 
sea  was  a  beautiful  green,  and  some  people  seemed 
to  be  In  my  way. 

I  wanted  to  come  out  of  the  water,  but  could 


204  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

not,  because  several  women  were  standing  on  the 
shore  and  I  was  naked.  I  took  the  dream  to 
mean  that  the  power  of  the  flesh  was  strong  within 
me,  standing  in  my  way,  but  deliverance  was  close 
at  hand.  I  got  up  before  dawn,  struck  a  flint,  but 
could  not  light  the  tinder  for  a  long  time,  after 
which,  putting  on  my  dressing-gown  of  elk  skin,  I 
went  out  into  the  fresh  air.  The  rosy  orange  glow 
of  the  rising  sun  could  be  seen  behind  the  snow- 
clad  pines  and  larches.  I  brought  in  the  wood 
which  I  chopped  yesterday,  lit  my  stove,  and  began 
chopping  some  more.  It  grew  lighter.  I  had 
my  breakfast  of  soaked  rusks,  shut  the  damper 
of  the  stove  as  soon  as  the  logs  were  red,  and  sat 
down  to  write. 

I  begin  again.  I  was  born  on  loth  December 
1777,  and  was  named  Alexander  by  my  grand- 
mother's wish.  In  the  hope,  as  she  afterwards  told 
me,  that  I  should  become  as  great  as  Alexander 
of  Macedonia,  and  as  holy  as  Alexander  Nevsky. 
I  was  christened  a  week  after  my  birth  in  the  big 
church  of  the  palace.  I  was  carried  into  the 
church  by  the  Duchess  of  Courland  on  a  brocade 
pillow,  whilst  a  number  of  other  great  personages 
held  a  cover  over  me.  The  Empress  was  my 
godmother,  the  Emperor  of  Austria  and  the  King 
of  Prussia  were  my  godfathers. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  205 

My  room  was  arranged  according  to  my  grand- 
mother's taste.  I  can  of  course  remember  noth- 
ing about  it,  but  have  been  told  by  other  people. 
It  was  a  large  room  with  three  high  windows.  A 
space  was  portioned  off  in  the  middle  by  four 
columns,  with  a  velvety  canopy  overhead  fastened 
to  the  ceiling,  and  silk  curtains  falling  to  the 
ground.  Under  this  canopy  there  was  a  little 
iron  bedstead  with  a  leather  mattress,  a  little  pil- 
low, and  a  light  English  blanket.  The  whole  was 
enclosed  by  a  rail  four  feet  high,  so  that  visitors 
should  not  come  too  close.  There  was  no  furni- 
ture in  the  room  with  the  exception  of  the  nurse's 
bed  behind  the  curtains. 

All  the  details  of  my  physical  training  were 
settled  by  my  grandmother.  I  was  not  allowed 
to  be  rocked,  and  was  swathed  in  a  new  way,  with 
the  feet  left  bare.  I  used  to  be  bathed  first  in 
warm  then  in  cold  water.  My  clothes,  too,  were 
of  a  peculiar  kind;  none  of  my  garments  had  any 
seams  or  fasteners,  and  were  slipped  straight  over 
my  head.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  crawl,  I  was 
put  upon  the  carpet  and  left  to  my  own  devices. 
I  was  told  that  in  the  early  days  my  grandmother 
used  frequently  to  sit  down  beside  me  on  the 
carpet  and  play  with  me.  But  I  have  no  recollec- 
tion of  it,  neither  do  I  remember  my  nurse. 

She  was  the  wife  of  a  gardener  at  Tsarskoye 


2o6  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Selo,  and  was  called  Avdotia  Petrova.  I  saw  her 
again  in  the  garden  at  Tsarskoye  when  I  was 
eighteen  years  old  —  she  came  up  and  told  me 
who  she  was.  It  was  at  the  best  time  of  my  life, 
during  my  first  friendship  with  Chartorisky,  when 
I  was  filled  with  disgust  at  what  went  on  at  the 
two  courts  —  my  poor  unfortunate  father's  and  my 
grandmother's.  She  had  made  me  hate  her  at 
that  time.  I  was  still  a  man  then,  and  not  a  bad 
man,  full  of  good  intentions.  I  was  walking  In  the 
garden  with  Chartorisky,  when  a  neatly-dressed 
woman  came  out  of  one  of  the  side  avenues.  Her 
rosy  face,  wreathed  In  smiles,  was  wonderfully 
kind  and  pleasant.  She  came  up  to  me  excitedly, 
and  falling  down  on  her  knees,  seized  my  hand 
and  began  kissing  It. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"  Your  Highness  I  Your  Highness  I  Heaven 
be  praised  that  I  see  you  again !  " 

"  I  was  your  foster-mother,  Avdotia  Dunyasha. 
I  nursed  you  for  eleven  months.  Thank  the  Lord 
for  this  meeting  with  you  I  " 

I  raised  her  with  difficulty,  asked  where  she 
lived,  and  promised  to  go  and  see  her. 

The  charming  Interior  of  her  tiny  cottage,  her 
sweet  daughter,  my  foster-sister,  a  perfect  Russian 
beauty,  who  was  engaged  to  the  court  riding- 
master,  her  husband  the  gardener,  just  as  smiling 
as  his  wife,  and  their  group  of  little  children,  all 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  207 

seemed    to    light    up    the    darkness    surrounding 
me. 

"This  Is  real  life,  real  happiness  I  "  I  thought. 
"  How  simple  It  all  Is,  how  clear  I  No  envies, 
Intrigues,  quarrels!  '* 

This  beloved  Dunyasha  was  my  foster-mother. 
My  head  nurse  was  a  certain  Sophia  Ivanovna 
Benkendorf,  a  German;  my  second  nurse  was  a 
Miss  Hessler,  an  Englishwoman.  Sophia  Ivan- 
ovna Benkendorf  was  a  tall,  stout  woman,  with 
a  pale  complexion  and  straight  nose.  She  had 
a  majestic  bearing  when  In  the  nursery,  but  was 
marvellously  small  and  servile  when  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  grandmother,  who  was  about  a  head 
shorter  than  herself.  She  was  obsequious  and 
severe  with  me  at  the  same  time.  At  one  moment 
she  was  a  queen  In  her  broad  skirts  and  with  her 
haughty  countenance;  at  another  she  was  a  cring- 
ing, hypocritical  serving-maid.  Praskovia  Ivan- 
ovna Hessler  was  a  long-faced,  red-haired,  serious 
Englishwoman,  but  when  she  smiled,  her  face 
shone  with  radiance,  so  that  It  was  Impossible  to 
keep  from  smiling  with  her.  I  liked  her  sense  of 
order,  her  cleanliness,  her  kindness,  and  her  firm- 
ness. She  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  some  mys- 
terious knowledge  of  which  neither  my  mother  nor 
even  grandmother  herself  were  aware. 

I  remember  my  mother  at  that  time  as  some 
supernaturally   beautiful   vision,    mysterious    and 


2o8  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

sad,  gorgeously  dressed  In  silks  and  laces,  and 
glittering  with  diamonds.  She  would  come  Into 
my  room  with  her  bare  round  white  arms  and  a 
curiously  aloof  expression  on  her  face  which  I  did 
not  understand.  She  would  caress  me,  take  me  up 
in  those  lovely  arms  of  hers,  raise  me  to  her  still 
more  lovely  face,  and,  shaking  back  her  beautiful 
thick  hair,  would  kiss  me  and  begin  to  cry.  On 
one  occasion  she  let  me  drop  out  of  her  arms  as 
she  fell  to  the  floor  senseless. 

Strange  to  say,  I  had  no  sort  of  love  for  my 
mother.  Whether  it  was  due  to  her  attitude 
towards  me,  or  to  my  grandmother's  Influence,  or 
because  I  was  able  by  my  childish  Instinct  to  see 
through  all  the  court  Intrigues  centring  round  me, 
I  am  unable  to  say.  There  used  to  be  something 
strained  about  her  manner  towards  me.  She  was 
not  really  interested  In  me,  but  seemed  to  be  dis- 
playing me  for  some  end,  and  I  was  conscious  of 
this.     I  was  not  mistaken,  as  I  learnt  later. 

My  grandmother  took  me  away  from  my  par- 
ents and  brought  me  up  entirely  herself.  She  in- 
tended placing  me  on  the  throne  Instead  of  my 
poor  unfortunate  father,  her  son,  whom  she  hated. 
Needless  to  say,  I  knew  nothing  of  this  at  the  time, 
but  as  soon  as  I  began  to  notice  things  I  felt  my- 
self to  be  an  object  of  enmity  and  rivalry,  the  play- 
thing of  conspirators,  without  knowing  the  why 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  209 

or  wherefore.  I  was  conscious  of  every  one's 
utter  indifference  to  me  —  to  my  childish  heart, 
that  had  no  need  of  a  crown  but  rather  of  love, 
of  which  I  knew  nothing.  There  was  my  mother, 
who  was  always  depressed  when  she  saw  me.  On 
one  occasion  she  was  talking  to  Sophia  Ivanovna 
in  German,  when  she  heard  my  grandmother  com- 
ing; she  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and  ran  out  of 
the  room.  There  was  my  father,  who  sometimes 
came  to  see  us  and  whom  we  sometimes  went  to 
see.  This  poor  unfortunate  father  of  mine 
showed  even  greater  displeasure  on  seeing  me  than 
my  mother.  His  whole  bearing  towards  me  was 
one  of  restrained  anger.  I  remember  on  one 
occasion  how  we  were  taken  to  their  apartments 
before  they  set  out  for  their  travels  abroad  in 
178 1.  I  happened  to  be  standing  next  to  him, 
when  he  suddenly  thrust  me  away,  jumped  up 
from  his  chair  with  flashing  eyes,  and  gasped  out 
something  concerning  me  and  my  grandmother. 
I  cannot  recall  all  that  he  said,  but  the  .Words 
apres  62  tout  est  possible  have  remained  in  my 
memory.  I  remember  how  I  got  frightened  and 
burst  into  tears.  My  mother  took  me  up  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  me,  then  carried  me  over  to  him. 
He  gave  me  his  blessing  hurriedly  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room,  his  high  heels  clattering  as  he 
went. 


210  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

It  was  not  until  long  after  that  I  understood 
the  meaning  of  this  outburst.  They  set  out  for 
their  travels  under  the  name  of  Comte  et  Comtesse 
du  Nord,  It  was  my  grandmother's  Idea  that 
they  should  go.  My  father  was  afraid  that  In  his 
absence  he  would  be  deprived  of  the  right  to  the 
throne  and  that  I  should  be  acknowledged  as  his 
successor.  Good  God!  he  prized  that  which 
ruined  us  both  —  ruined  us  bodily  and  spiritually, 
and  I,  unfortunate  man,  prized  It  no  less  than  he  1 

I  hear  some  one  knocking  at  the  door  and 
chanting  a  prayer  In  the  name  of  Father  and  Son. 
Amen.  I  must  put  away  my  papers  and  go  and 
see  who  it  is.  With  God's  grace  I  will  continue 
to-morrow. 


Ill 


December   13. 

Last  night  I  slept  very  little  and  had  bad  dreams. 
I  thought  that  an  unpleasant,  sickly-looking  woman 
was  pressing  herself  close  against  me  and  I  was  not 
afraid  of  her,  nor  of  the  sin,  but  afraid  that  my 
wife  should  see  us.  I  did  not  want  to  hear  her 
reproaches  again.  I  am  seventy-two  years  old 
and  am  not  yet  free.  In  a  waking  state  It  Is  pos- 
sible to  deceive  yourself,  but  in  dreams  you  get  a 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  211 

true  estimate  of  the  plane  that  you  have  reached. 
I  had  a  second  dream  which  gave  me  another 
proof  of  my  low  moral  condition.  I  thought  that 
some  one  had  brought  me  some  sweets  wrapped 
up  In  green  moss.  We  unpacked  them  and  divided 
them  between  us,  leaving  a  few  over.  I  still  went 
on  selecting  some  for  myself,  when  suddenly  I 
caught  sight  of  an  unpleasant-looking,  dark-col- 
oured boy,  a  son  of  the  Sultan,  stretching  his  arm 
towards  me  and  trying  to  clutch  them.  I  pushed 
him  away  rudely,  though  I  knew  quite  well  that  It 
was  far  more  natural  for  a  child  to  eat  sweets 
than  for  me,  but  I  was  angry  with  him  and  would 
not  give  him  any  and  was  conscious  at  the  same 
time  that  It  was  mean. 

A  similar  thing  happened  to  me  when  I  was 
awake.  I  had  a  visit  from  Maria  Martemen- 
ovna;  a  messenger  called  yesterday  to  ask  If  she 
might  come.  I  did  not  like  to  hurt  her  feelings, 
so  I  consented,  but  I  find  these  visits  extremely 
trying.  She  came  to-day.  I  could  hear  the  sound 
of  her  sledge  over  the  crisp  snow  when  she  was 
still  some  way  off.  She  arrived  In  her  fur  coat 
and  shawls,  laden  with  packages  she  had  brought 
for  me,  letting  In  so  much  cold  that  I  was  obliged 
to  put  on  my  dressing-gown.  She  had  brought  me 
pancakes,  lenten  oil,  and  apples.  She  had  come 
to  consult  me  about  her  daughter,  whom  a  rich 


212  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

widower  wished  to  marry,  and  wanted  to  know  If 
she  was  to  give  her  consent  Their  tremendous 
opinion  of  my  wisdom  Is  extremely  annoying  to 
me.  All  my  protestations  to  the  contrary  they 
invariably  put  down  to  my  humility.  I  repeated 
to  her  what  I  had  said  many  times  before,  that 
chastity  is  higher  than  marriage,  but  that  the  Apos- 
tle Paul  says  it  is  better  to  marry  than  be  the 
slave  of  passion. 

Her  brother-in-law  Nikanor  Ivanov  was  with 
her.  He  had  once  asked  me  to  settle  in  his  house, 
and  has  never  since  ceased  worrying  me  with  his 
visits.  Nikanor  Ivanov  is  a  great  trial  to  me.  I 
can  never  overcome  my  aversion  of  him.  Help 
me,  O  Lord,  to  see  my  own  sins  that  I  may  not 
judge  my  brother.  All  his  shortcomings  are 
known  to  me.  I  see  through  them  with  a  ma- 
licious shrewdness.  I  am  conscious  of  his  weak- 
nesses and  cannot  conquer  my  dislike  of  him  — 
and  he  Is  my  brother,  with  the  same  divine  element 
in  him  that  is  in  me.  What  do  these  aversions 
mean!  It  is  not  my  first  experience  of  them. 
The  two  strongest  antipathies  I  ever  felt  in  my 
life  were  against  Louis  XVIIL,  with  his  corpulent 
body,  hook  nose,  irritating  white  hands;  his  con- 
ceit. Insolence,  and  utter  stupidity  .  .  .  (there I 
I  cannot  keep  from  abusing  him).  The  other 
was  against  Nikanor  Ivanov,  who  tormented  me 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  213 

for  two  whole  hours  yesterday.  Everything  about 
him,  from  his  voice,  his  hair,  to  his  very  nails  was 
repulsive  to  me.  I  pretended  to  be  unwell  In  or- 
der to  account  for  my  depression  to  Maria  Marte- 
menovna.  After  they  had  gone  I  said  my  prayers 
and  grew  calmer.  I  thank  Thee,  O  Lord,  for  the 
power  Thou  hast  granted  me  over  the  only  thing 
that  Is  necessary  to  me.  I  tried  to  remember  that 
NIkanor  Ivanov  was  once  an  innocent  child  and 
that  he  will  come  to  die  like  the  rest  of  us.  I 
tried  to  think  kindly  of  Louis  XVIIL,  who  was 
dead.  I  felt  sorry  that  NIkanor  Ivanov  was  not 
there  that  I  might  show  him  how  kindly  disposed 
I  felt  towards  him. 

Maria  Martemenovna  brought  me  a  quantity 
of  candles  so  that  I  shall  be  able  to  write  at  night. 

I  have  just  been  out.  To  the  left  the  stars  had 
already  merged  Into  the  glorious  light  of  the  au- 
rora borealls.  How  beautiful!  How  beautiful! 
I  must  continue. 

My  father  and  mother  started  on  their  travels 
abroad  and  my  brother  Constantlne  and  I  were 
left  in  the  entire  charge  of  our  grandmother.  My 
brother,  who  was  born  two  years  later  than  I, 
had  been  christened  Constantlne  In  the  hope  that 
he  would  one  day  become  the  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople. 


214  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Children  readily  grow  fond  of  people,  especially 
of  those  who  are  kind  to  them.  My  grandmother 
was  very  nice  to  me,  made  much  of  me,  and  I 
loved  her  in  spite  of  an  extremely  repellant  odour 
that  always  seemed  to  hang  about  her.  The  strin- 
gent scents  could  not  disguise  this  odour  —  I  used 
to  notice  it  particularly  when  I  sat  upon  her  knee. 
I  was  still  more  repelled  by  her  clean  yellowish 
hands  covered  with  wrinkles,  so  shiny  and  slip- 
pery, the  fingers  bending  over,  and  the  nails  un- 
naturally long.  Her  languid,  lustreless  eyes,  that 
seemed  almost  dead,  and  the  smile  playing  about 
her  toothless  mouth,  produced  an  oppressive 
though  not  altogether  unpleasant  effect  on  those 
who  saw  her.  I  believed  at  that  time  that  the 
languid  expression  of  her  eyes  was  due  to  the  enor- 
mous pains  she  took  over  her  toilet.  At  any  rate 
I  was  told  so.  I  felt  sorry  for  her  then,  but  now 
I  think  of  It  with  disgust. 

I  had  seen  Potemkin  once  or  twice.  This 
huge,  greasy,  one-eyed  monster  was  terrible. 

The  thing  that  awed  me  most  about  him,  though 
he  used  to  play  with  me  and  call  me  your  High- 
ness, was  the  fact  that  he  never  seemed  afraid  of 
my  grandmother,  like  other  people,  but  would 
speak  boldly  in  her  presence  in  his  gruff,  bellow- 
ing voice. 

Another  man  whom  I  frequently  saw  in  her 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  215 

company  was  Lanskoy.  He  was  nearly  always 
with  her.  The  whole  Court  hovered  about  him 
and  made  much  of  him.  Needless  to  say  I  did 
not  understand  who  Lanskoy  was  at  the  time,  and 
liked  him.  I  was  attracted  by  his  curly  hair,  his 
shapely  legs  in  tight  elk-skin  breeches,  his  happy, 
light-hearted  smile,  his  diamonds  and  jewels,  glit- 
tering all  over  him. 

It  was  a  time  full  of  gaieties.  We  were  taken 
to  Tsarskoye  Selo,  we  rowed  on  the  river,  we 
busied  ourselves  in  the  garden,  we  went  out  walk- 
ing and  riding.  Constantine,  a  chubby,  red- 
haired  little  boy,  un  petit  Bacchus  as  grandmother 
used  to  call  him,  kept  us  amused  with  his  lively 
fun.  He  used  to  mimic  everybody.  Including 
Sophia  Ivanovna  and  even  grandmother  herself. 
One  event  of  that  time  impressed  Itself  on  my 
memory.  This  was  the  death  of  Sophia  Ivanovna 
Benkendorf.  She  died  one  evening  at  Tsarskoye 
In  grandmother's  presence.  Sophia  Ivanovna  had 
just  brought  us  in  to  her  and  was  talking  and  smil- 
ing, and  suddenly  her  face  changed,  she  reeled, 
leaned  up  against  the  door  for  support,  and  fell 
down  senseless.  People  came  running  in  and  we 
were  taken  away.  The  next  day  we  heard  that 
she  was  dead.  I  cried  very  much,  felt  very  mis- 
erable, and  would  not  be  comforted.  They  all 
thought  that  I  was  grieved  about  Sophia  Ivanovna, 


2i6  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

but  that  was  not  true.  I  cried  at  the  thought 
that  people  should  have  to  die ;  that  there  should 
be  such  a  thing  as  death  in  the  world.  I  could 
not  comprehend,  could  not  believe,  that  it  was 
the  Inevitable  fate  of  all  men.  I  remember  how, 
in  my  live-year-old  soul,  there  rose  up  questions 
about  the  meaning  of  death  and  the  meaning  of 
life  that  ends  In  death.  Those  vital  questions 
confronting  all  men,  to  which  the  wise  have  tried 
to  seek  an  answer  in  vain,  and  the  foolish  have 
tried  to  Ignore  and  forget.  As  Is  natural  to  a 
child,  particularly  one  in  my  position,  I  dismissed 
the  terrifying  Idea  of  death  from  my  mind;  for- 
got about  it  as  If  It  did  not  exist. 

Another  important  event  of  that  time  which 
came  as  a  consequence  of  Sophia  Ivanovna's  death, 
was  that  we  passed  over  into  the  charge  of  a  tutor. 
He  was  NIcolai  Ivanovlch  Saltlkov  —  not  the 
Saltlkov  who,  in  all  probability,  was  our  grand- 
father, but  NIcolai  Ivanovlch,  who  had  been  at- 
tached to  my  father's  Court.  He  was  a  little 
man,  with  an  enormous  head  and  a  stupid-looking 
countenance,  on  which  there  was  a  constant  grim- 
ace. Constantlne  used  to  imitate  it  beautifully. 
This  change  necessitated  parting  with  my  dear 
Praskovia  Ivanovna,  my  old  nurse. 

Those  who  have  not  had  the  misfortune  of  be- 
ing born  in  a  royal  house  can  hardly  imagine  the 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  217 

distorted  view  we  have  of  people,  nor  our  false 
attitude  towards  them.  Instead  of  being  instilled 
with  a  sense  of  dependence  on  our  elders  natural 
to  children,  or  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  all  the 
good  we  enjoyed,  we  were  made  to  believe  that 
we  were  some  kind  of  superior  beings  whose  every 
wish  must  be  gratified.  Beings  who,  by  a  single 
word  or  smile,  not  only  paid  for  all  the  kindness 
showered  upon  them,  but  were  even  conferring 
some  sort  of  favour,  making  others  happy. 

It  Is  true  that  politeness  was  expected  of  us; 
but  by  a  peculiar  childish  Instinct,  I  soon  saw  that 
we  were  not  meant  to  be  polite  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  but  merely  so  as  to  enhance  our  own 
grandeur. 

I  remember  one  festive  day.  My  brother, 
Saltlkov  and  I  were  driving  along  the  Nevsky. 
We  sat  on  the  front  seat,  with  two  powdered  foot- 
men In  red  livery  standing  behind.  It  was  a 
beautiful  day.  Constantlne  and  I  were  dressed 
In  uniforms,  unbuttoned  In  front,  exposing  our 
white  waistcoats,  on  which  lay  the  order  of  St. 
Andrew.  We  wore  hats  with  feathers,  which  we 
kept  raising  all  the  time  to  people  greeting  us. 
The  crowd  stared  and  cheered,  and  ran  after  us  — - 
"  On  vous  salueJ*  NIcolai  Ivanovich  kept  on  say- 
ing, "  A  droite"  As  we  passed  the  guardhouse 
the  sentinels  came  running  out  to  have  a  look  at  us. 


2i8  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

I  always  liked  to  see  them.  From  my  earliest, 
childhood  I  had  a  passion  for  soldiers  and  military 
manoeuvres. 

It  was  always  instilled  into  us,  particularly  by 
our  grandmother,  who  believed  it  least  of  all,  that 
we  must  always  bear  in  mind  that  all  men  are 
equal.  But  I  knew  somehow  that  those  who 
talked  about  equality  did  not  believe  in  it. 

Once  when  I  was  playing  with  Sasha  Galitsin, 
he  pushed  me  accidentally,  and  hurt  me. 

"  How  dare  you !  "  I  cried. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it.     It's  all  right!  " 

I  was  so  outraged  that  my  blood  rushed  to  my 
heart.  I  complained  to  Nicolai  Ivanovich,  and 
was  not  ashamed  when  Galitsin  was  made  to  apol- 
ogise. 

Enough  for  to-day.  My  candle  is  nearly  out, 
and  I  must  break  up  some  fagots.  My  axe  is 
blunt,  and  I  have  nothing  to  sharpen  it  on.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  know  how  to  do  it. 


IV 


December  ^^• 

I  have  not  written  anything  for  the  last  three 
days,  because  I  have  not  been  very  well.  I  tried 
to  read  the  Testament,  but  could  not  bring  myself 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  219 

to  that  understanding  of  it,  that  communion  with 
God  that  I  formerly  experienced.  I  used  to  think 
at  one  time  that  It  was  Impossible  for  man  to  live 
without  desire.  I  was  always  In  a  state  of  desire 
for  something  or  other,  and  am  not  free  from  It 
now.  At  one  time  I  desired  to  conquer  Napoleon ; 
I  desired  to  be  Europe's  peacemaker;  I  desired 
to  free  myself  of  my  crown;  but  all  these  desires, 
whether  fulfilled,  or  unfulfilled,  soon  ceased  to 
attract  me,  and  gave  place  to  new  ones.  So  it 
went  on  without  end.  Recently  I  longed  for  win- 
ter to  come  —  winter  has  come.  I  longed  for  sol- 
itude, and  have  almost  attained  It.  Now  I  want 
to  write  the  story  of  my  life  so  that  It  may  be  a 
warning  to  others,  but  whether  I  accomplish  it  or 
not,  new  desires  will  spring  up  just  the  same.  If 
life  is  nothing  more  than  the  begetting  of  desire, 
and  happiness  the  fulfilment  of  desire,  then  is 
there  not  some  sort  of  desire  fundamental  to  every 
man  that  would  always  be  fulfilled,  or  that  would 
be  possible  of  fulfilment?  It  became  clear  to  me 
that  such  a  desire  must  be  death.  The  whole  of 
life  would  then  become  a  preparation  for  the  ful- 
filment of  this  desire,  and  would  Inevitably  be 
fulfilled. 

The  Idea  seemed  strange  to  me  at  first,  but 
meditating  on  it  further,  I  was  convinced  that  the 
only  thing  a  wise  man  could  wish  for  was  death. 


220  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Not  death  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  that  stream  of 
life  leading  from  it.  It  would  free  the  spiritual 
nature  inherent  in  every  man  from  all  passions 
and  temptations.  I  see  this  now,  having  been 
freed  from  the  worst  of  that  darkness  that  ob- 
scured my  own  soul  from  me,  not  letting  me  see 
its  oneness  with  God  —  nay,  that  obscured  God 
Himself.     The  idea  came  to  me  unconsciously. 

If  I  really  believed  that  my  highest  good  was  to 
be  delivered  from  passion  and  to  be  united  with 
God,  then  I  ought  to  welcome  everything  that 
brought  me  nearer  death,  such  as  old  age  and 
sickness.  It  would  in  a  sense  be  a  fulfilment  of 
my  one  and  only  desire.  I  see  this  clearly  when 
I  am  well,  but  when  I  am  ill,  as  I  have  been  for 
the  last  two  days,  I  cannot  see  it  in  the  same  light, 
and  though  I  do  not  rebel  against  death,  yet  do 
not  long  for  its  approach.  This  is  a  condition  of 
spiritual  inertia.     I  must  be  patient. 

I  will  go  on  from  where  I  left  off  yesterday. 

Most  of  the  things  I  have  related  about  my 
childhood  I  have  heard  from  others.  Frequently 
the  things  that  have  been  told  me  and  my  own 
impressions  get  mixed  up  one  with  another,  so  that 
I  am  sometimes  unable  to  distinguish  between  the 
two. 

The  whole  of  my  life  from  the  very  moment  of 
my  birth  until  my  present  old  age,  makes  me  think 
of  a  plain  enveloped  in  a  thick  fog.     Everything 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  221 

Is  hidden  from  view,  when  all  at  once  the  mist 
lifts  Itself  In  places,  disclosing  tiny  little  Islands 
des  eclair cies  on  which  people  and  objects  can  be 
distinguished,  quite  disconnected  with  one  another, 
surrounded  by  an  Impenetrable  veil  of  mist. 

In  my  childhood  these  eclaircies  appeared  very 
rarely  in  the  interminable  sea  of  fog  and  smoke 
surrounding  me.  As  I  grew  older  I  could  see 
them  more  often,  but  even  now  there  are  periods 
of  my  life  that  have  left  no  trace  on  my  memory. 
I  have  already  given  some  of  the  events  of  my 
early  childhood  that  have  most  Impressed  them- 
selves on  my  mind,  the  death  of  Sophia  Benken- 
dorf,  the  parting  scene  with  my  parents,  my  lively 
brother  Constantlne,  and  there  are  other  reminis- 
cences that  come  crowding  back  as  I  think  of  the 
past.  But,  for  Instance,  I  have  no  recollection  of 
when  Constantlne  first  appeared,  nor  when  we 
came  to  live  together,  but  I  do  remember  one 
Christmas  Eve  when  he  was  five  and  I  was  seven 
years  old.  It  was  after  the  midnight  service  when 
they  put  us  to  bed.  We  both  got  together  as  soon 
as  we  were  left  alone.  Constantlne,  with  nothing 
on  but  a  nightshirt,  climbed  Into  my  bed,  and  we 
began  a  lively  game  which  consisted  In  slapping 
each  other  on  our  naked  bodies.  We  laughed  un- 
til our  sides  ached,  and  were  feeling  ever  so  happy, 
when  suddenly  NIcolai  Ivanovlch  came  into  the 


222  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

room  with  his  enormous  powdered  head,  and  In 
an  embroidered  coat.  He  was  horror-stricken 
on  catching  sight  of  us,  and  flew  at  us  in  a  perfect 
state  of  terror  that  I  have  never  been  able  to 
fathom.  He  put  Constantine  back  In  his  own 
bed,  threatened  to  punish  us  and  to  tell  our  grand- 
mother. 

Another  thing  that  Impressed  itself  on  my  mem- 
ory occurred  somewhat  later,  when  I  was  about 
nine.  It  was  the  quarrel  between  Alexei  Gregori- 
evich  Orlov  and  Potenkin,  which  took  place  In  my 
grandmother's  room  In  our  presence.  It  happened 
a  short  time  before  our  departure  for  the  Crimea 
and  our  first  visit  to  Moscow.  NIcolai  Ivanovich 
had  taken  us  to  see  grandmother  as  usual.  The 
large  room  with  a  carved  and  painted  ceiling  was 
full  of  people.  My  grandmother  was  sitting  be- 
fore a  golden  dressing-table,  in  a  white  dressing- 
jacket,  surrounded  by  her  maids,  who  were  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  her  hair.  It  was 
tastefully  dressed  on  the  top  of  her  head.  She 
smiled  on  seeing  us,  and  went  on  talking  to  a  gen- 
eral decorated  with  the  order  of  St.  Andrew.  He 
was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  terrible 
scar  across  his  cheek  from  the  mouth  to  the  ear. 
It  was  Orlov,  le  Balafre»  I  had  never  seen  him 
before. 
My  favourite  little  dog,  MIchot,  sprang  from 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  223 

the  foot  of  grandmother's  dress,  and  began  paw- 
ing me  and  llckhig  my  face.  We  came  up  to 
grandmother  and  kissed  her  plump  yellow  hand. 
She  put  it  under  my  chin,  and  began  to  caress  me 
with  her  bent  fingers.  In  spite  of  her  perfumes,  I 
felt  that  unpleasant  odour  about  her.  She  con- 
tinued talking  to  the  Bala f re.  "  Is  he  not  a  fine 
fellow?  "  she  said,  pointing  to  me.  "  You  haven't 
seen  him  before,  have  you.  Count?  '* 

*'  They  are  both  fine  fellows,''  the  Count  replied, 
kissing  our  hands  in  turn. 

"  All  right,  all  right !  "  she  said  to  the  maid, 
who  was  arranging  a  cap  on  her  head.  It  was 
dear  Marie  Stepanovna,  powdered  and  painted, 
who  was  always  kind  to  me. 

Lanskoy  came  up  with  an  open  snuff-box. 
Grandmother  took  some  snuff,  and  smiled  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Matriona  Denisovna,  her  jester, 
who  was  just  coming  in 

{Here  the  papers  break  off.) 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC. 

This  morning  I  underwent  a  medical  examina- 
tion In  the  government  council  room.  The  opin- 
ions of  the  doctors  were  divided.  They  argued 
among  themselves  and  came  at  last  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I  was  not  mad.  But  this  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  I  tried  hard  during  the  examination 
not  to  give  myself  away.  I  was  afraid  of  being 
sent  to  the  lunatic  asylum,  where  I  would  not  be 
able  to  go  on  with  the  mad  undertaking  I  have  on 
my  hands.  They  pronounced  me  subject  to  fits  of 
excitement,  and  something  else,  too,  but  never- 
theless of  sound  mind.  The  doctor  prescribed  a 
certain  treatment,  and  assured  me  that  by  follow- 
ing his  directions  my  trouble  would  completely 
disappear.  Imagine,  all  that  torments  me  dis- 
appearing completely!  Oh,  there  Is  nothing  I 
would  not  give  to  be  free  from  my  trouble.  The 
suffering  Is  too  great ! 

I  am  going  to  tell  explicitly  how  I  came  to  un- 
dergo that  examination;  how  I  went  mad,  and 
how  my  madness  was  revealed  to  the  outside 
world. 

227 


228        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

Up  to  the  age  of  thirty-five  I  lived  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  nobody  had  noticed  any 
peculiarities  In  me.  Only  In  my  early  childhood, 
before  I  was  ten,  I  had  occasionally  been  In  a  men- 
tal state  similar  to  the  present  one,  and  then  only 
at  intervals,  whereas  now  I  am  continually  con- 
scious of  it. 

I  remember  going  to  bed  one  evening,  when  I 
was  a  child  of  five  or  six.  Nurse  Euprasia,  a  tall, 
lean  woman  In  a  brown  dress,  with  a  double  chin, 
was  undressing  me,  and  was  just  lifting  me  up  to 
put  me  into  bed. 

"  I  will  get  into  bed  myself,"  I  said,  preparing 
to  step  over  the  net  at  the  bedside. 

"  Lie  down,  Fedlnka.  You  see,  MItinka  is  al- 
ready lying  quite  still,"  she  said,  pointing  with 
her  head  to  my  brother  In  his  bed. 

I  jumped  Into  my  bed  still  holding  nurse's  hand 
in  mine.  Then  I  let  It  go,  stretched  my  legs  under 
the  blanket  and  wrapped  myself  up.  I  felt  so  nice 
and  warm!  I  grew  silent  all  of  a  sudden  and 
began  thinking:  "I  love  nurse,  nurse  loves  me 
and  MItinka,  I  love  MItinka  too,  and  he  loves  me 
and  nurse.  And  nurse  loves  Taras;  I  love  Taras 
too,  and  so  does  MItinka.  And  Taras  loves  me 
and  nurse.  And  mother  loves  me  and  nurse; 
nurse  loves  mother  and  me  and  father;  everybody 
loves  everybody,  and  everybody  Is  happy." 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        229 

Suddenly  the  housekeeper  rushed  in  and  began 
to  shout  In  an  angry  voice  something  about  a  sugar 
basin  she  could  not  find.  Nurse  got  cross  and 
said  she  did  not  take  It.  I  felt  frightened;  It  was 
all  so  strange.  A  cold  horror  came  over  me,  and 
I  hid  myself  under  the  blanket.  But  I  felt  no 
better  In  the  darkness  under  the  blanket.  I 
thought  of  a  boy  who  had  got  a  thrashing  one  day 
In  my  presence  —  of  his  screams,  and  of  the  cruel 
face  of  Foka  when  he  was  beating  the  boy. 

"  Then  you  won't  do  It  any  more;  you  won't!  " 
he  repeated  and  went  on  beating. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  boy;  and  Foka  kept  on 
repeating  over  and  over,  "  You  won't,  you 
won't !  "  and  did  not  cease  to  strike  the  boy. 

That  was  when  my  madness  came  over  me  for 
the  first  time.  I  burst  Into  sobs,  and  they  could 
not  quiet  me  for  a  long  while.  The  tears  and 
despair  of  that  day  were  the  first  signs  of  my 
present  trouble. 

I  well  remember  the  second  time  my  madness 
seized  me.  It  was  when  aunt  was  telling  us  about 
Christ.  She  told  His  story  and  got  up  to  leave 
the  room.  But  we  held  her  back:  "Tell  us 
more  about  Jesus  Christ!  "  we  said. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  replied. 

"  No,  tell  us  more,  please!  "  MItlnka  Insisted, 
and  she  repeated  all  she  had  said  before.     She 


1230       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

told  us  how  they  crucified  Him,  how  they  beat  and 
martyred  Him,  and  how  He  went  on  praying  and 
did  not  blame  them. 

"  Auntie,  why  did  they  torture  Him?  '* 

"  They  were  wicked." 

"But  wasn't  He  God?" 

"  Be  still  —  it  is  nine  o'clock,  don't  you  hear 
the  clock  striking?  " 

"Why  did  they  beat  Him?  He  had  forgiven 
them.  Then  why  did  they  hit  Him?  Did  It 
hurt  Him?     Auntie,  did  it  hurt?  " 

"  Be  quiet,  I  say.  I  am  going  to  the  dining- 
room  to  have  tea  now." 

"  But  perhaps  it  never  happened,  perhaps  He 
was  not  beaten  by  them?  " 

"  I  am  going." 

"  No,  Auntie,  don't  go  1  .  .  ."  And  again  my 
madness  took  possession  of  me.  I  sobbed  and 
sobbed,  and  began  knocking  my  head  against  the 
wall. 

Such  had  been  the  fits  of  madness  In  my  child- 
hood. But  after  I  was  fourteen,  from  the  time 
the  instincts  of  sex  awoke  and  I  began  to  give  way 
to  vice,  my  madness  seemed  to  have  passed,  and 
I  was  a  boy  like  other  boys.  Just  as  happens 
with  all  of  us  who  are  brought  up  on  rich,  over- 
abundant food,  and  are  spoiled  and  made  effemi- 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       231 

nate,  because  we  never  do  any  physical  work,  and 
are  surrounded  by  all  possible  temptations,  which 
excite  our  sensual  nature  when  in  the  company  of 
other  children  similarly  spoiled,  so  I  had  been 
taught  vice  by  other  boys  of  my  age  and  I  in- 
dulged in  It.  As  time  passed  other  vices  came  to 
take  the  place  of  the  first.  I  began  to  know 
women,  and  so  I  went  on  living,  up  to  the  time  I 
was  thirty-five,  looking  out  for  all  kinds  of  pleas- 
ures and  enjoying  them.  I  had  a  perfectly  sound 
mind  then,  and  never  a  sign  of  madness.  Those 
twenty  years  of  my  normal  life  passed  without 
leaving  any  special  record  on  my  memory,  and  now 
it  is  only  with  a  great  effort  of  mind  and  with  utter 
disgust,  that  I  can  concentrate  my  thoughts 
upon  that  time. 

Like  all  the  boys  of  my  set,  who  were  of  sound 
mind,  I  entered  school,  passed  on  to  the  university 
and  went  through  a  course  of  law  studies.  Then 
I  entered  the  State  service  for  a  short  time,  mar- 
ried, and  settled  down  in  the  country,  educating  — 
if  our  way  of  bringing  up  children  can  be  called 
educating  —  my  children,  looking  after  the  land, 
and  filling  the  post  of  a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

It  was  when  I  had  been  married  ten  years  that 
one  of  those  attacks  of  madness  I  suffered  from  in 
my  childhood  made  its  appearance  again.  My 
wife  and  I  had  saved  up  money  from  her  inherit- 


232        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

ance  and  from  some  Government  bonds*  of  mine 
which  I  had  sold,  and  we  decided  that  with  that 
money  we  would  buy  another  estate.  I  was  natu- 
rally keen  to  increase  our  fortune,  and  to  do  It 
in  the  shrewdest  way,  better  than  any  one  else 
would  manage  It.  I  went  about  inquiring  what 
estates  were  to  be  sold,  and  used  to  read  all  the 
advertisements  in  the  papers.  What  I  wanted  was 
to  buy  an  estate,  the  produce  or  timber  of  which 
would  cover  the  cost  of  purchase,  and  then  I  would 
have  the  estate  practically  for  nothing.  I  was 
looking  out  for  a  fool  who  did  not  understand 
business,  and  there  came  a  day  when  I  thought  I 
had  found  one.  An  estate  with  large  forests  at- 
tached to  It  was  to  be  sold  In  the  Pensa  Govern- 
ment. To  judge  by  the  Information  I  had  re- 
ceived the  proprietor  of  that  estate  was  exactly 
the  Imbecile  I  wanted,  and  I  might  expect  the  for- 
ests to  cover  the  price  asked  for  the  whole  estate. 
I  got  my  things  ready  and  was  soon  on  my  way 
to  the  estate  I  wished  to  Inspect. 

We  had  first  to  go  by  train  (I  had  taken  my 
man-servant  with  me),  then  by  coach,  with  relays 

♦These  government  bonds  were  of  a  peculiar  kind:  At  the 
moment  of  the  abolition  of  serfdom,  the  Russian  Government 
handed  to  the  owners  of  serfs  State  bonds  instead  of  money, 
called  in  Russia  "the  redemption  bonds."  The  money  due  by 
the  Government  on  those  papers  were  paid  off  at  fixed  periods  — 
and  the  owners  of  those  bonds  sold  them  often  like  ordinary 
Government  papers. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       233 

of  horses  at  the  various  stations.  The  journey 
was  very  pleasant,  and  my  servant,  a  good-natured 
youth,  liked  it  as  much  as  I  did.  We  enjoyed  the 
new  surroundings  and  the  new  people,  and  having 
now  only  about  two  hundred  miles  more  to  drive, 
we  decided  to  go  on  without  stopping,  except  to 
change  horses  at  the  stations.  Night  came  on 
and  we  were  still  driving.  I  had  been  dozing,  but 
presently  I  awoke,  seized  with  a  sudden  fear. 
As  often  happens  in  such  a  case,  I  was  so  excited 
that  I  was  thoroughly  awake  and  it  seemed  as  if 
sleep  were  gone  for  ever.  "  Why  am  I  driving? 
Where  am  I  going?"  I  suddenly  asked  myself. 
It  was  not  that  I  disliked  the  idea  of  buying  an 
estate  at  a  bargain,  but  it  seemed  at  that  moment 
so  senseless  to  journey  to  such  a  far  away  place, 
and  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  I  were  going  to  die  there, 
away  from  home.     I  was  overcome  with  horror. 

My  servant  Sergius  awoke,  and  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  fact  to  talk  to  him.  I  began  to  remark 
upon  the  scenery  around  us;  he  had  also  a  good 
deal  to  say,  of  the  people  at  home,  of  the  pleasure 
of  the  journey,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  me  that 
he  could  talk  so  gaily.  He  appeared  so  pleased 
with  everything  and  in  such  good  spirits,  whereas 
I  was  annoyed  with  it  all.  Still,  I  felt  more  at 
ease  when  I  was  talking  with  him.  Along  with 
my  feelings  of  restlessness  and  my  secret  horror, 


234       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

however,  I  was  fatigued  as  well,  and  longed  to 
break  the  journey  somewhere.  It  seemed  to  me 
my  uneasiness  would  cease  if  I  could  only  enter  a 
room,  have  tea,  and,  what  I  desired  most  of  all, 
sleep. 

We  were  approaching  the  town  Arzamas. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  stop  here  and 
have  a  rest?  " 

"  Why  not?     It's  an  excellent  idea." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  the  town?  "  I  asked  the 
driver. 

"Another  seven  miles." 

The  driver  was  a  quiet,  silent  man.  He  was 
driving  rather  slowly  and  wearily. 

We  drove  on.  I  was  silent,  but  I  felt  better, 
looking  forward  to  a  rest  and  hoping  to  feel  the 
better  for  It.  We  drove  on  and  on  In  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  seven  miles  seemed  to  have  no  end. 
At  last  we  reached  the  town.  It  was  sound  asleep 
at  that  early  hour.  First  came  the  small  houses, 
piercing  the  darkness,  and  as  we  passed  them,  the 
noise  of  our  jingling  bells  and  the  trotting  of  our 
horses  sounded  louder.  In  a  few  places  the 
houses  were  large  and  white,  but  I  did  not  feel 
less  dejected  for  seeing  them.  I  was  waiting  for 
the  station,  and  the  samovar,  and  longed  to  lie 
down  and  rest. 

At  last  we  approached  a  house  with  pillars  in 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       235 

front  of  It.  The  house  was  white,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  very  melancholy.  I  felt  even  frightened  at 
Its  aspect  and  stepped  slowly  out  of  the  carriage. 
Sergius  was  busying  himself  with  our  luggage, 
taking  what  we  needed  for  the  night,  running 
about  and  stepping  heavily  on  the  doorsteps.  The 
sound  of  his  brisk  tread  increased  my  weariness. 
I  walked  in  and  came  into  a  small  passage.  A 
man  received  us ;  he  had  a  large  spot  on  his  cheek 
and  that  spot  filled  me  with  horror.  He  asked  us 
into  a  room  which  was  just  an  ordinary  room. 
My  uneasiness  was  growing. 

"  Could  we  have  a  room  to  rest  in?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  very  nice  bedroom  at  your 
disposal.     A  square  room,  newly  whitewashed." 

The  fact  of  the  little  room  being  square  was  — ^ 
I  remember  it  so  well  —  most  painful  to  me.  It 
had  one  window  with  a  red  curtain,  a  table  of 
birchwood  and  a  sofa  with  a  curved  back  and 
arms.  Sergius  boiled  the  water  in  the  samovar 
and  made  the  tea.  I  put  a  pillow  on  the  sofa  in 
the  meantime  and  lay  down.  I  was  not  asleep ;  I 
heard  Sergius  busy  with  the  samovar  and  urging 
me  to  have  tea.  I  was  afraid  to  get  up  from  the 
sofa,  afraid  of  driving  away  sleep;  and  just  to  be 
sitting  in  that  room  seemed  awful.  I  did  not  get 
up,  but  fell  into  a  sort  of  doze.  When  I  started 
up  out  of  it,  nobody  was  in  the  room  and  it  was 


236       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

quite  dark.  I  woke  up  with  the  very  same  sensa- 
tion I  had  the  first  time  and  knew  sleep  was  gone. 
"  Why  am  I  here?  Where  am  I  going?  Just  as 
I  am  I  must  be  for  ever.  Neither  the  Pensa  nor 
any  other  estate  will  add  to  or  take  anything  away 
from  me.  As  for  me,  I  am  unbearably  weary  of 
myself.  I  want  to  go  to  sleep,  to  forget  —  and  I 
cannot,  I  cannot  get  rid  of  self." 

I  went  out  into  the  passage.  Sergius  was  sleep- 
ing there  on  a  narrow  bench,  his  hand  hanging 
down  beside  it.  He  was  sleeping  soundly,  and 
the  man  with  the  spot  on  his  cheek  was  also  asleep. 
I  thought,  by  going  out  of  the  room,  to  get  away 
from  what  was  tormenting  me.  But  it  followed 
me  and  made  everything  seem  dark  and  dreary. 
My  feeling  of  horror,  instead  of  leaving  me,  was 
increasing. 

"  What  nonsense !  "  I  said  to  myself.  *'  Why 
am  I  so  dejected?  What  am  I  afraid  of?" 
"  You  are  afraid  of  me  " —  I  heard  the  voice  of 
Death  — "  I  am  here." 

I  shuddered.  Yes, —  Death  I  Death  will  come, 
it  will  come  and  it  ought  not  to  come.  Even  in 
facing  actual  death  I  would  certainly  not  feel  any- 
thing of  what  I  felt  now.  Then  it  would  be  simply 
fear,  whereas  now  it  was  more  than  that.  I  was 
actually  seeing,  feeling  the  approach  of  death,  and 
along  with  it  I  felt  that  death  ought  not  to  exist. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       237 

My  entire  being  was  conscious  of  the  necessity 
of  the  right  to  live,  and  at  the  same  time  of  the 
inevitability  of  dying.  This  inner  conflict  was 
causing  me  unbearable  pain.  I  tried  to  shake  off 
the  horror;  I  found  a  half-burnt  candle  in  a  brass 
candlestick  and  lighted  it.  The  candle  with  its  red 
flame  burnt  down  until  it  was  not  much  taller  than 
the  low  candlestick.  The  same  thing  seemed  to 
be  repeated  over  and  over:  nothing  lasts,  life  Is 
not,  all  is  death  —  but  death  ought  not  to  exist. 
I  tried  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  what  had  interested 
me  before,  to  the  estate  I  was  to  buy  and  to  my 
wife.  Far  from  being  a  relief,  these  seemed  noth- 
ing to  me  now.  To  feel  my  life  doomed  to  be 
taken  from  me  was  a  terror  shutting  out  any  other 
thought.  "  I  must  try  to  sleep,"  I  decided.  I 
went  to  bed,  but  the  next  instant  I  jumped  up, 
seized  with  horror.  A  sickness  overcame  me,  a 
spiritual  sickness  not  unlike  the  physical  uneasi- 
ness preceding  actual  illness  —  but  in  the  spirit, 
not  In  the  body.  A  terrible  fear  similar  to  the 
fear  of  death,  when  mingled  with  the  recollec- 
tions of  my  past  life,  developed  into  a  horror 
as  if  life  were  departing.  Life  and  death  were 
flowing  into  one  another.  An  unknown  power 
was  trying  to  tear  my  soul  into  pieces,  but  could 
not  rend  it.  Once  more  I  went  out  into  the 
passage  to  look  at  the  two  men  asleep ;  once  more 


238        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

I  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  The  horror  was  always  the 
same  —  now  red,  now  white  and  square.  Some- 
thing was  tearing  within  but  could  not  be  torn 
apart.  A  torturing  sensation!  An  arid  hatred 
deprived  me  of  every  spark  of  kindly  feeling. 
Just  a  dull  and  steady  hatred  against  myself  and 
against  that  which  had  created  me.  What  did 
create  me?  God?  We  say  God.  .  .  .  "What 
If  I  tried  to  pray?  "  I  suddenly  thought.  I  had 
not  said  a  prayer  for  more  than  twenty  years  and 
I  had  no  religious  sentiment,  although  just  for 
formality's  sake  I  fasted  and  partook  of  the  com- 
munion every  year.  I  began  saying  prayers: 
"  God,  forgive  me,"  "  Our  Father,'*  "  Our  Lady," 
I  was  composing  new  prayers,  crossing  myself, 
bov/ing  to  the  earth,  looking  around  me  all  the 
while  for  fear  I  might  be  discovered  in  my  de- 
votional attitude.  The  prayers  seemed  to  divert 
my  thoughts  from  the  previous  terror,  but  It  was 
more  the  fear  of  being  seen  by  somebody  that  did 
it.  I  went  to  bed  again.  But  the  moment  I  shut 
my  eyes  the  very  same  feeling  of  terror  made  me 
jump  up.  I  could  not  stand  It  any  longer.  I 
called  the  hotel  servant,  roused  Serglus  from  his 
sleep,  ordered  him  to  harness  the  horses  to  the 
carriage  and  we  were  soon  driving  on  once  more. 
The  open  air  and  the  drive  made  me  feel  much 
better.     But  I  realised  that  something  new  had 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        239 

come  into  my  soul,  and  had  poisoned  the  life  I  had 
lived  up  to  that  hour. 

We  reached  our  destination  in  the  evening. 
The  whole  day  long  I  remained  struggling  with 
despair,  and  finally  conquered  it;  but  a  horror  re- 
mained in  the  depth  of  my  soul.  It  was  as  if  a 
misfortune  had  happened  to  me,  and  although 
I  was  able  to  forget  it  for  a  while,  it  remained  at 
the  bottom  of  my  soul,  and  I  was  entirely  domi- 
nated by  it. 

The  manager  of  the  estate,  an  old  man,  received 
us  in  a  very  friendly  manner,  though  not  exactly 
with  great  joy;  he  was  sorry  that  the  estate  was  to 
be  sold.  The  clean  little  rooms  with  upholstered 
furniture,  a  new,  shining  samovar  on  the  tea-table, 
nice  large  cups,  honey  served  with  the  tea, —  every- 
thing was  pleasant  to  see.  I  began  questioning 
him  about  the  estate  without  any  interest,  as  if  I 
were  repeating  a  lesson  learned  long  ago  and 
nearly  forgotten.  It  was  so  uninteresting.  But 
that  night  I  was  able  to  go  to  sleep  without  feel- 
ing miserable.  I  thought  this  was  due  to  having 
said  my  prayers  again  before  going  to  bed. 

After  that  incident  I  resumed  my  ordinary  life ; 
but  the  apprehension  that  this  horror  would  again 
come  upon  me  was  continual.  I  had  to  live  my 
usual  life  without  any  respite,  not  giving  way  to 
my  thoughts,  just  like  a  schoolboy  who  repeats 


240       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

by  habit  and  without  thinking  the  lesson  learned 
by  heart.  That  was  the  only  way  to  avoid  being 
seized  again  by  the  horror  and  the  despair  I  had 
experienced  in  Arzamas. 

I  had  returned  home  safe  from  my  journey;  I 
had  not  bought  the  estate  —  I  had  not  enough 
money.  My  life  at  home  seemed  to  be  just  as 
it  had  always  been,  save  for  my  having  taken  to 
saying  prayers  and  to  going  to  church.  But 
now,  when  I  recollect  that  time,  I  see  that  I  only 
imagined  my  life  to  be  the  same  as  before.  The 
fact  was  I  merely  continued  what  I  had  previously 
started,  and  was  running  with  the  same  speed  on 
rails  already  laid;  but  I  did  not  undertake  any- 
thing new. 

Even  in  those  things  which  I  had  already  taken 
In  hand  my  interest  had  diminished.  I  was  tired 
of  everything,  and  was  growing  very  religious. 
My  wife  noticed  this,  and  was  often  vexed  with 
me  for  it.  No  new  fit  of  distress  occurred  while 
I  was  at  home.  But  one  day  I  had  to  go  unex- 
pectedly to  Moscow,  where  a  lawsuit  was  pending. 
In  the  train  I  entered  into  conversation  with  a  land- 
owner from  Kharkov.  We  were  talking  about  the 
management  of  estates,  about  bank  business,  about 
the  hotels  in  Moscow,  and  the  theatres.  We  both 
decided  to  stop  at  the  "  Moscow  Court,"  in  the 
Miasnizkaia  Street,  and  go  that  evening  to  the 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        241 

opera,  to  Faust.  When  we  arrived  I  was  shown 
into  a  small  room,  the  heavy  smell  of  the  passage 
being  still  in  my  nostrils.  The  porter  brought  in 
my  portmanteau,  and  the  maid  lighted  the  candle, 
the  flame  of  which  burned  up  brighdy  and  then 
flickered,  as  it  usually  does.  In  the  room  next  to 
mine  I  heard  somebody  coughing,  probably  an  old 
man.  The  maid  went  out,  and  the  porter  asked 
whether  I  wished  him  to  open  my  bag.  In  the 
meanwhile  the  candle  flame  had  flared  up,  throw- 
ing its  light  on  the  blue  wallpaper  with  yellow 
stripes,  on  the  partition,  on  the  shabby  table,  on 
the  small  sofa  in  front  of  it,  on  the  mirror  hang- 
ing on  the  wall,  and  on  the  window.  I  saw  what 
the  small  room  was  like,  and  suddenly  felt  the 
horror  of  the  Arzamas  night  awakening  within 
me. 

"  My  God!  Must  I  stay  here  for  the  night? 
How  can  I?  "  I  thought.  *'  Will  you  kindly  un- 
fasten my  bag?  "  I  said  to  the  porter,  to  keep 
him  longer  in  the  room.  "  And  now  I'll  dress 
quickly  and  go  to  the  theatre,"  I  said  to  myself. 

When  the  bag  had  been  untied  I  said  to  the 
porter,  "  Please  tell  the  gentleman  in  Number  8 
—  the  one  who  came  with  me  —  that  I  shall  be 
ready  presently,  and  ask  him  to  wait  for  me." 

The  porter  left,  and  I  began  to  dress  in  haste, 
afraid  to  look  at  the  walls.     *'  But  what  non- 


242       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

sense  I  '*  I  said  to  myself.  "  Why  am  I  frightened 
like  a  child?  I  am  not  afraid  of  ghosts — " 
Ghosts !  —  To  be  afraid  of  ghosts  is  nothing  to 
what  I  was  afraid  of!  "  But  what  is  it?  Abso- 
lutely nothing.  I  am  only  afraid  of  myself.  .  .  . 
Nonsense  I  '* 

I  slipped  into  a  cold,  rough,  starched  shirt,  stuck 
in  the  studs,  put  on  evening  dress  and  new  boots, 
and  went  to  call  for  the  Kharkov  landowner,  who 
was  ready.  We  started  for  the  opera  house.  He 
stopped  on  the  way  to  have  his  hair  curled,  while 
I  went  to  a  French  hairdresser  to  have  mine  cut, 
where  I  talked  a  little  to  the  Frenchwoman  in  the 
shop  and  bought  a  pair  of  gloves.  Everything 
seemed  all  right.  I  had  completely  forgotten  the 
oblong  room  in  the  hotel,  and  the  walls. 

I  enjoyed  the  Faust  performance  very  much, 
and  when  it  was  over  my  companion  proposed 
that  we  should  have  supper.  This  was  contrary 
to  my  habits;  but  just  at  that  moment  I  remem- 
bered the  walls  In  my  room,  and  accepted. 

We  returned  home  after  one.  I  had  two  glasses 
of  wine  —  an  unusual  thing  for  me  — •  in  spite  of 
which  I  was  feeling  quite  at  ease. 

But  the  moment  we  entered  the  passage  with 
the  lowered  lamp  lighting  it,  the  moment  I  was 
surrounded  by  the  peculiar  smell  of  the  hotel,  I 
felt  a  cold  shudder  of  horror  running  down  my 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       243 

back.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  shook 
hands  with  my  new  friend,  and  stepped  into  my 
room. 

I  had  a  frightful  night  —  much  worse  than  the 
night  at  Arzamas;  and  It  was  not  until  dawn,  when 
the  old  man  In  the  next  room  was  coughing  again, 
that  I  fell  asleep  —  and  then  not  In  my  bed,  but, 
after  getting  In  and  out  of  It  many  times,  on  the 
sofa. 

I  suffered  the  whole  night  unbearably.  Once 
more  my  soul  and  my  body  were  tearing  them- 
selves apart  within  me.  The  same  thoughts  came 
again :  "  I  am  living,  I  have  lived  up  till  now,  I 
have  the  right  to  live;  but  all  around  me  is  death 
and  destruction.  Then  why  live?  Why  not  die? 
Why  not  kill  myself  Immediately?  No;  I  could 
not.  I  am  afraid.  Is  It  better  to  wait  for  death 
to  come  when  it  will  ?  No,  that  Is  even  worse ;  and 
I  am  also  afraid  of  that.  Then,  I  must  live.  But 
what  for?  In  order  to  die?"  I  could  not  get 
out  of  that  circle.  I  took  a  book,  and  began 
reading.  For  a  moment  It  made  me  forget  my 
thoughts.  But  then  the  same  questions  and  the 
same  horror  came  again.  I  got  Into  bed,  lay 
down,  and  shut  my  eyes.  That  made  the  horror 
worse.  God  had  created  things  as  they  are.  But 
why?  They  say,  "  Don't  ask;  pray."  Well,  I 
did  pray;  I  was  praying  now,  just  as  I  did  at  Arza- 


244       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

mas.  At  that  time  I  had  prayed  simply,  like  a 
child.  Now  my  prayers  had  a  definite  meaning: 
"  If  Thou  exist,  reveal  Thy  existence  to  me.  To 
what  end  am  I  created?  What  am  I?  "  I  was 
bowing  to  the  earth,  repeating  all  the  prayers  I 
knew,  composing  new  ones;  and  I  was  adding  each 
time,  "  Reveal  Thy  existence  to  me !  "  I  became 
quiet,  waiting  for  an  answer.  But  no  answer 
came,  as  If  there  were  nothing  to  answer.  I  was 
alone,  alone  with  myself  and  was  answering  my 
own  questions  In  place  of  Him  who  would  not 
answer.  "  What  am  I  created  for?  "  "  To  live 
in  a  future  life,"  I  answered.  "  Then  why  this 
uncertainty  and  torment?  I  cannot  believe  in 
future  life.  I  did  believe  when  I  asked,  but  not 
with  my  whole  soul.  Now  I  cannot,  I  cannot! 
If  Thou  didst  exist.  Thou  wouldst  reveal  it  to  me, 
to  all  men.  But  Thou  dost  not  exist,  and  there 
is  nothing  true  but  distress."  But  I  cannot  accept 
that!  I  rebelled  against  it;  I  implored  Him  to 
reveal  His  existence  to  me.  I  did  all  that  every- 
body does,  but  He  did  not  reveal  Himself  to  me. 
"  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you,"  I  remem- 
bered, and  began  to  entreat;  In  doing  so  I  felt 
no  real  comfort,  but  just  surcease  of  despair.  Per- 
haps It  was  not  entreaty  on  my  part,  but  only  denial 
of  Him.  You  retreat  a  step  from  Him,  and  He 
goes  from  you  a  mile.     I  did  not  believe  In  Him, 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       245 

and  yet  here  I  was  entreating  Him.  But  He  did 
not  reveal  Himself.  I  was  balancing  my  accounts 
with  Him,  and  was  blaming  Him.  I  simply  did 
not  believe. 

The  next  day  I  used  all  my  endeavours  to  get 
through  with  my  affairs  somehow  during  the  day, 
In  order  to  be  saved  from  another  night  In  the 
hotel  room.  Although  I  had  not  finished  every- 
thing, I  left  for  home  In  the  evening. 

That  night  at  Moscow  brought  a  still  greater 
change  Into  my  life,  which  had  been  changing  ever 
since  the  night  at  Arzamas.  I  was  now  paying 
less  attention  to  my  affairs,  and  grew  more  and 
more  Indifferent  to  everything  around  me.  My 
health  was  also  getting  bad.  My  wife  urged  me 
to  consult  a  doctor.  To  her  my  continual  talk 
about  God  and  religion  was  a  sign  of  Ill-health, 
whereas  I  knew  I  was  ill  and  weak,  because  of  the 
unsolved  questions  of  religion  and  of  God. 

I  was  trying  not  to  let  that  question  dominate 
my  mind,  and  continued  living  amid  the  old  un- 
altered conditions,  filling  up  my  time  with  Incessant 
occupations.  On  Sundays  and  feast  days  I  went 
to  church;  I  even  fasted  as  I  had  begun  to  do 
since  my  journey  to  Pensa,  and  did  not  cease  to 
pray.  I  had  no  faith  in  my  prayers,  but  somehow 
I  kept  the  demand  note  in  my  possession  Instead 


ii46       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

of  tearing  it  up,  and  was  always  presenting  it  for 
payment,  although  I  was  aware  of  the  impossibility 
of  getting  paid.  I  did  it  just  on  the  chance.  I 
occupied  my  days,  not  with  the  management  of 
the  estate  —  I  felt  disgusted  with  all  business  be- 
cause of  the  struggle  It  Involved  —  but  with  the 
reading  of  papers,  magazines,  and  novels,  and  with 
card-playing  for  small  stakes.  The  only  outlet 
for  my  energy  was  hunting.  I  had  kept  that  up 
from  habit,  having  been  fond  of  this  sport  all  my 
life. 

One  day  in  winter,  a  neighbour  of  mine  came 
with  his  dogs  to  hunt  wolves.  Having  arrived  at 
the  meeting-place,  we  put  on  snowshoes  to  walk 
over  the  snow  and  move  rapidly  along.  The  hunt 
was  unsuccessful;  the  wolves  contrived  to  escape 
through  the  stockade.  As  I  became  aware  of 
that  from  a  distance,  I  took  the  direction  of  the 
forest  to  follow  the  fresh  track  of  a  hare.  This 
led  me  far  away  into  a  field.  There  I  spied  the 
hare,  but  he  had  disappeared  before  I  could  fire. 
I  turned  to  go  back,  and  had  to  pass  a  forest  of 
huge  trees.  The  snow  was  deep,  the  snowshoes 
were  sinking  in,  and  the  branches  were  entangling 
me.  The  wood  was  getting  thicker  and  thicker. 
I  wondered  where  I  was,  for  the  snow  had 
changed  all  the  familiar  places.  Suddenly  I  re- 
alised that  I  had  lost  my  way.     How  should  I  get 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        247 

home  or  reach  the  hunting  party?  Not  a  sound 
to  guide  me !  I  was  tired  and  bathed  in  perspira- 
tion. If  I  stopped,  I  would  probably  freeze 
to  death;  If  I  walked  on,  my  strength  would  for- 
sake me.  I  shouted,  but  all  was  quiet,  and  no  an- 
swer came.  I  turned  In  the  opposite  direction, 
which  was  wrong  again,  and  looked  round.  Noth- 
ing but  the  wood  on  every  hand.  I  could  not  tell 
which  was  east  or  west.  I  turned  back  again,  but 
I  could  hardly  move  a  step.  I  was  frightened,  and 
stopped.  The  horror  I  had  experienced  In  Arza- 
mas and  In  Moscow  seized  me  again,  only  a  hun- 
dred times  greater.  My  heart  was  beating,  my 
hands  and  feet  were  shaking.  Am  I  to  die  here? 
I  don't  wan't  want  to!  Why  death?  What  Is 
death?  I  was  about  to  ask  again,  to  reproach 
God,  when  I  suddenly  felt  I  must  not ;  I  ought  not. 
I  had  not  the  right  to  present  any  account  to  Him; 
He  had  said  all  that  was  necessary,  and  the  fault 
was  wholly  mine.  I  began  to  Implore  His  forgive- 
ness for  I  felt  disgusted  with  myself.  The  horror, 
however,  did  not  last  long.  I  stood  still  one  mo- 
ment, plucked  up  courage,  took  the  direction  which 
seemed  to  be  the  right  one,  and  was  actually  soon 
out  of  the  wood.  I  had  not  been  far  from  Its  edge 
when  I  lost  my  way.  As  I  came  out  on  the  main 
road,  my  hands  and  feet  were  still  shaking,  and 
my  heart  was  beating  violently.     But  my  soul  was 


248        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

full  of  joy.  I  soon  found  my  party,  and  we  all  ^ 
returned  home  together.  I  was  not  quite  happy, 
but  I  knew  there  was  a  joy  within  me  which  I 
would  understand  later  on;  and  that  joy  proved 
real.  I  went  to  my  study  to  be  alone  and  prayed, 
remembering  my  sins,  and  asking  for  forgiveness. 
They  did  not  seem  to  be  numerous;  but  when  I 
thought  of  what  they  were  they  were  hateful  to 
me. 

Then  I  began  to  read  the  Scriptures.  The  Old 
Testament  I  found  Incomprehensible  but  enchant- 
ing, the  New  touching  in  its  meekness.  But  my 
favourite  reading  was  now  the  lives  of  the  saints; 
they  were  consoling  to  me,  affording  examples 
which  seemed  more  and  more  possible  to  follow. 
Since  that  time  I  have  grown  even  less  Interested 
In  the  management  of  affairs  and  in  family  matters. 
These  things  even  became  repulsive  to  me.  Ev- 
erything was  wrong  In  my  eyes.  I  did  not  quite 
realise  why  they  were  wrong,  but  I  knew  that  the 
things  of  which  my  whole  life  had  consisted,  now 
counted  for  nothing.  This  was  plainly  revealed 
to  me  again  on  the  occasion  of  the  projected  pur- 
chase of  an  estate,  which  was  for  sale  In  our  neigh- 
bourhood on  very  advantageous  terms.  I  went  to 
inspect  it.  Everything  was  very  satisfactory,  the 
more  so  because  the  peasants  on  that  estate  had  no 
land  of  their  own  beyond  their  vegetable  gardens. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC       249 

I  grasped  at  once  that  in  exchange  for  the  right  of 
using  the  landowner's  pasture-grounds,  they  would 
do  all  the  harvesting  for  him;  and  the  information 
I  was  given  proved  that  I  was  right.  I  saw  how 
important  that  was,  and  was  pleased,  as  it  was  in 
accordance  with  my  old  habits  of  thought.  But 
on  my  way  home  I  met  an  old  woman  who  asked 
her  way,  and  I  entered  into  a  conversation  with 
her,  during  which  she  told  me  about  her  poverty. 
On  returning  home,  when  telling  my  wife  about 
the  advantages  the  estate  afforded,  all  at  once  I 
felt  ashamed  and  disgusted.  I  said  I  was  not  go- 
ing to  buy  that  estate,  for  its  profits  were  based  on 
the  sufferings  of  the  peasants.  I  was  struck  at 
that  moment  with  the  truth  of  what  I  was  saying, 
the  truth  of  the  peasants  having  the  same  desire  to 
live  as  ourselves,  of  their  being  our  equals,  our 
brethren,  the  children  of  the  Father,  as  the  Gospel 
says.  But  unexpectedly  something  which  had  been 
gnawing  within  me  for  a  long  time  became  loos- 
ened and  was  torn  away,  and  something  new 
seemed  to  be  born  instead. 

My  wife  was  vexed  with  me  and  abused  me. 
But  I  was  full  of  joy.  This  was  the  first  sign  of 
my  madness.  My  utter  madness  began  to  show 
itself  about  a  month  later. 

This  began  by  my  going  to  church ;  I  was  listen- 
ing to  the  Mass  with  great  attention  and  with 


250       MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

a  faithful  heart,  when  I  was  suddenly  given  a 
wafer;  after  which  every  one  began  to  move  for- 
ward to  kiss  the  Cross,  pushing  each  other  on  all 
sides.  As  I  was  leaving  church,  beggars  were 
standing  on  the  steps.  It  became  Instandy  clear 
to  me  that  this  ought  not  to  be,  and  In  reality  was 
not.  But  If  this  Is  not,  then  there  is  no  death  and 
no  fear,  and  nothing  Is  being  torn  asunder  within 
me,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  calamity  which  may 
come. 

At  that  moment  the  full  light  of  the  truth  was 
kindled  In  me,  and  I  grew  Into  what  I  am  now. 
If  all  this  horror  does  not  necessarily  exist  around 
me,  then  It  certainly  does  not  exist  within  me.  I 
distributed  on  the  spot  all  the  money  I  had  among 
the  beggars  In  the  porch,  and  walked  home  instead 
of  driving  in  my  carriage  as  usual,  and  all  the  way 
I  talked  with  the  peasants. 


TWO  WAYFARERS 


TWO  WAYFARERS 

Two  men  with  bundles  over  their  shoulders  were 
walking  along  the  dusty  highroad  that  lies  between 
Moscow  and  Toula.  The  younger  man  wore  a 
short  coat  and  velveteen  trousers.  Spectacles 
gleamed  out  from  under  the  brim  of  his  new  peas- 
ant's hat.  The  other  was  a  man  of  about  fifty, 
remarkably  handsome,  dressed  In  a  monk's  frock, 
with  a  leather  belt  round  his  waist  and  a  high 
round  black  cap,  such  as  novices  wear  in  monas- 
teries. His  long  dark  beard  and  dark  hair  were 
turning  grey. 

The  younger  man  was  pale  and  sallow,  was 
covered  with  dust,  and  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
drag  one  foot  after,  the  other.  The  old  man 
walked  cheerfully  along,  swinging  his  arms,  his 
shoulders  well  thrown  back.  It  seemed  as  though 
dust  dared  not  settle  on  his  handsome  face  nor  his 
body  feel  fatigue. 

The  young  man.  Serge  Vasillevlch  Borzin,  was 
a  doctor  of  science  of  Moscow  University.  The 
old  man,  Nicholas  Petrovich  Serpov,  had  been  a 
sub-lieutenant  in  an  infantry  regiment  during  the 

253 


254  TWO  WAYFARERS 

reign  of  Alexander,  then  he  had  become  a  monk, 
but  was  expelled  from  the  monastery  for  bad  con- 
duct. He  had,  however,  retained  the  monastic 
garb.  The  men  had  come  together  In  this  wise. 
Borzin,  after  taking  his  doctor's  degree,  and  after 
writing  several  articles  for  the  Moscow  reviews, 
went  to  stay  In  the  country,  to  plunge  into  the 
current  of  peasant  life  and  to  refresh  himself  In 
the  waves  of  the  popular  stream,  as  he  put  It. 
After  a  month  spent  In  the  country  in  complete 
solitude,  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  a  literary 
friend  of  his. who  was  editor  of  a  journal:—^ 

"  My  Master  and  Friend  Ivan  Finogeich, 

—  It  is  not  for  us  to  predict  —  Indeed  we  cannot 

—  the  ultimate  solution  of  those  problems  which 
are  solving  themselves  in  the  secrecy  of  the  village 
life  of  the  Russian  people.  Various  phases  of  the 
Russian  mind  and  its  phenomena  must  be  carefully 
taken  into  consideration  —  the  seclusion  of  their 
lives ;  the  revolutionary  reforms  introduced  by  Pe- 
ter; etc.,  etc." 

The  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  Borzin, 
having  been  deeply  Impressed  by  the  everyday  life 
of  the  people,  had  become  convinced  that  the  prob- 
lem of  determining  the  destiny  of  the  Russian  na- 
tion was  more  difficult  and  complex  than  he  had 


TWO  WAYFARERS  255 

been  wont  to  Imagine,  and  that  in  order  to  find  its 
solution  he  must  traverse  Russia  on  foot;  so  he 
asked  his  friend  not  to  discuss  the  question  In  his 
journal  pending  his  return,  promising  to  set  forth 
all  that  he  discovered  In  a  series  of  articles. 

Having  written  this  letter,  Borzin  set  about 
making  preparations  for  his  journey.  Though  It 
annoyed  him,  he  had  to  consider  such  details  as 
what  he  should  wear.  He  bought  a  coat,  nailed 
boots,  and  a  hat  such  as  the  peasants  wear,  and, 
shutting  out  his  servants,  studied  himself  for  a 
long  time  In  his  glass.  He  could  not  get  rid  of 
his  spectacles,  as  he  was  too  near-sighted.  After 
this,  the  most  essential  thing  was  to  get  some 
money.  He  needed  at  least  300  roubles.  There 
was  no  money  In  his  cash-box,  so  Borzin  summoned 
his  bailiff  and  accountant  and  went  through  his 
books.  Finding  that  he  had  180  quarters  of 
oats,  he  ordered  them  to  be  sold,  but  the  bailiff 
remarked  that  the  oats  had  been  kept  for  seed. 
In  another  column  he  found  an  entry  of  160  quar- 
ters of  rye,  and  asked  if  that  would  suffice  for 
seed.  The  bailiff  replied  by  asking  If  he  wanted 
them  to  sow  last  year's  rye.  The  conversation 
ended  shortly  after,  the  bailiff  recognising  that 
Borzin  knew  as  little  about  farming  as  a  babe, 
and  Borzin  realising  that  the  rye  had  been  sown 
already,  that  new  seed  was  usually  used,  and  that 


256  TWO  WAYFARERS 

after  deducting  enough  for  dally  needs  from  the 
1 80  quarters  of  corn,  the  rest  might  be  sold. 

The  money  having  been  obtained,  Borzin  made 
up  his  mind  one  evening  to  start  next  day,  when  he 
heard  an  unknown  voice  in  the  hall,  and  his  fath- 
er's old  valet  Stephen  entered  and  announced 
Nicholas  Petrovich  Serpov. 

"Who  Is  he?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  monk  who  used  to 
visit  your  father?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all.     What  does  he  want?  '' 

"  He  wishes  to  see  you,  but  I  don't  think  he  is 
quite  himself." 

Serpov  entered  the  room,  bowed,  stamped  his 
foot  and  said, — 

"  Serpov  — '  a  wayfarer."  They  shook  hands. 
"  Nothing  but  ignorance  —  no  education.  I  ad- 
monish Russia  In  vain.  Russia  is  a  fool.  The 
peasant  Is  industrious  but  Russia  Is  a  fool.  Don't 
you  agree?  I  knew  your  father.  We  used  to  sit 
and  chat,  and  he  would  say,  *  You  will  get  on.' 
But  why  are  you  dressed  like  that?  I  am  as  plain- 
spoken  as  a  soldier,  and  I  ask  why?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  make  a  journey  on  foot." 

"  I  am  on  the  road  myself.  I  am  a  wayfarer. 
I  have  been  all  the  way  to  Greece,  to  the  Athos 
Monastery,  but  I  never  saw  any  one  as  honest  as 
our  peasants." 


TWO  WAYFARERS  257 

Serpov  sat  down,  asked  for  vodka,  and  then 
went  to  bed.  Borzin  was  puzzled.  Next  day 
Serpov  was  the  listener  and,  as  Borzin  liked  to 
talk,  Serpov  heard  all  about  his  theory  and  the  aim 
of  his  journey.  Serpov  thoroughly  approved  of 
it,  and  ended  by  offering  himself  as  companion, 
which  Borzin  accepted;  partly  because  he  did  not 
know  how  to  get  rid  of  him ;  partly  because,  with 
all  his  craziness,  Serpov  could  flatter;  partly,  and 
chiefly,  because  Borzin  regarded  the  monk  as  a 
remarkable,  though  somewhat  complicated,  phe- 
nomenon of  Russian  life. 

They  set  out,  and  when  we  found  them  on  the 
highroad  they  were  nearing  the  place,  where,  ac- 
cording to  their  plan,  the  first  night  was  to  be 
spent.  They  had  accomplished  the  first  twenty- 
two  versts  of  their  journey. 

Serpov  had  a  glass  at  the  public-house  and  was 
in  good  spirits. 


KHODINKA:  AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE 
CORONATION  OF  NICHOLAS  II. 


KHODINKA*:   AN   INCIDENT  OF  THE 
CORONATION  OF  NICHOLAS  II. 

**  I  CANNOT  understand  such  obstinacy.  Why 
should  you  do  without  sleep  and  go  *  with  the 
people,'  when  you  can  go  straight  to  the  pavilion 
with  your  Aunt  Vera,  and  see  everything  without 
any  trouble?  I  told  you  Behr  had  promised  to 
pass  you  through,  though,  as  far  as  that's  con- 
cerned, you  have  the  right  of  entry  as  a  maid  of 
honour." 

It  was  thus  that  Prince  Paul  Golltsin  —  known 
in  the  .aristocratic  set  as  "  Pigeon  "  —  addressed 
his  twenty-three-year-old  daughter  Alexandra, 
called  for  shortness'  sake  "  Rina." 

The  conversation  took  place  in  Moscow  on 
17th  May  1893  —  on  the  eve  of  the  popular  fete 
held  to  celebrate  the  coronation.  Rina,  a  strong, 
handsome  girl,  with  a  profile  characteristic  of 
her  race  —  the  hooked  nose  of  a  bird  of  prey  — 
had  long  ceased  to  be  passionately  devoted  to  balls 

*The  Khodlnka  is  a  large  plain  outside  Moscow  where  the 
military  often  exercise.  It  was  here  that  the  people  of  Moscow 
assembled  to  celebrate  the  Tsar's  accession,  and  where  many 
hundreds  were  crushed  to  death. 

261 


262  KHODINKA 

or  social  functions,  and  was,  or  at  least  considered 
herself  to  be,  an  "  advanced  "  woman  and  a  lover 
of  "  the  people.'*  She  was  her  father's  only 
daughter  and  his  favourite,  and  always  did  what 
she  wished.  In  this  particular  Instance  It  occurred 
to  her  that  she  would  like  to  go  to  the  popular 
festival  with  her  cousin,  not  at  mid-day  with  the 
Court,  but  together  with  the  people,  the  porter  and 
the  grooms  of  their  own  household,  who  intended 
to  start  in  the  early  morning. 

"  But,  father,  I  do  not  want  to  look  at  the  peo- 
ple; I  want  to  be  with  them.  I  want  to  see  how 
they  feel  towards  the  young  Tsar.  Surely  for 
once  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  like.  I  know  how  ob- 
stinate you  are." 

**  Don't  be  angry,  father,  dear.  I  promise  to 
be  careful,  and  Alec  will  not  leave  my  side." 

Although  the  plan  seemed  wild  and  fantastic  to 
her  father,  he  gave  his  consent. 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  may,"  he  answered  when 
she  asked  if  she  might  have  the  victoria.  "  Drive 
to  Khodlnka  and  send  it  back." 

"  All  right." 

She  went  up  to  him,  and  he  blessed  her,  as  was 
his  custom,  and  she  kissed  his  big  white  hand,  and 
they  separated. 

There  was  no  talk  of  anything  but  the  morrow's 


KHODINKA  263 

festival  among  the  cigarette-makers  In  the  lodgings 
let  by  the  notorious  Marie  Yakovlevna.  Several 
of  Emelian  Tagodin's  friends  had  met  in  his  room 
to  discuss  when  they  should  start. 

**  It's  not  worth  while  going  to  bed  at  all. 
You'll  only  oversleep  yourself,"  said  Yakov,  a 
bright  youth  who  occupied  a  space  behind  a 
wooden  partition. 

"  Why  not  have  a  little  sleep?  "  retorted  Eme- 
lian. "  We'll  start  at  dawn.  Every  one  says 
that's  the  thing  to  do." 

"  Well,  if  we  are  going  to  bed,  it's  timxe  we 


went." 


"  But,  Emelian,  mind  you  call  us  if  we  don't 
wake  up  in  time." 

Emelian  promised  he  would,  and,  taking  a  reel 
of  silk  from  a  drawer  in  the  table,  drew  the  lamp 
nearer,  and  began  to  sew  a  missing  button  on  his 
summer  overcoat.  When  he  had  finished  this  job 
he  laid  out  his  best  clothes  and  cleaned  his  boots, 
and,  after  saying  several  prayers  — "  Our  Father," 
"  Hail  Mary,"  etc.,  the  meaning  of  which  he  had 
never  fathomed,  and  had  not  even  been  interested 
in  —  he  took  off  his  boots,  and  lay  down  on  the 
crumpled,  creaking  bed. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  to  himself.  "There  is 
such  a  thing  as  luck.  Perhaps  I  shall  get  a  lottery 
ticket  and  win."     The  rumour  had  spread  among 


264  KHODINKA 

the  people  that,  besides  other  gifts,  some  lottery- 
tickets  were  to  be  distributed.  "  Well,  the  10,000 
rouble  prize  Is  expecting  too  much,  but  one  might 
win  500  roubles.  What  couldn't  I  do  with  It? 
I  could  send  something  to  the  old  folk;  Td  make 
my  wife  leave  her  situation:  It's  no  sort  of  exist- 
ence living  apart  like  this.  I'd  buy  a  good  watch 
and  a  fur  coat.  As  It  Is,  It's  one  long  struggle, 
and  you're  never  out  of  your  difficulties." 

He  began  to  dream  that  he  and  his  wife  were 
walking  around  the  Alexander  Gardens,  and  that 
the  same  policeman  who  had  taken  him  up  a  year 
ago  for  using  bad  language  when  he  was  drunk 
was  no  longer  a  policeman,  but  a  general,  and  that 
this  same  general  smiled  at  him  and  Invited  him 
to  go  to  a  neighbouring  public-house  with  him  to 
hear  a  mechanical  organ.  The  organ  sounded 
just  like  a  clock  striking,  arid  Emelian  awoke  to 
find  that  the  clock  really  was  striking  wheezlly, 
and  that  the  landlady  was  coughing  behind  his 
door.  It  was  not  quite  so  dark  as  It  had  been  the 
night  before. 

"  Don't  oversleep  yourself." 

Emelian  got  up,  went  barefooted  across  the 
room  to  the  wooden  partition  to  awake  Yasha,  and 
then  proceeded  to  dress  carefully,  greasing  and 
brushing  his  hair  before  the  broken  mirror. 

"  I'm  all  right!     That's  why  girls  are  so  fond 


KHODINKA  265 

of  me.     Only  I  don't  want  to  get  into  mischief." 

He  went  to  the  landlady,  as  arranged  the  day 
before,  to  get  some  food.  He  put  a  meat  pie, 
two  eggs,  some  ham,  and  a  small  bottle  of  vodka 
into  a  bag,  and  then  left  the  house  with  Yasha 
and  walked  towards  the  Peter  Park. 

They  were  not  alone.  Some  were  in  front; 
others  were  hurrying  up  from  behind.  From  all 
sides  happy  men,  women,  and  children,  dressed  in 
their  best,  were  collecting  together,  all  going  in 
the  same  direction.  At  last  they  reached  the  field 
called  Khodlnka.  Its  edges  were  black  with  peo- 
ple. It  was  cold  in  the  early  dawn,  and  here 
and  there  smoke  was  arising  from  the  fires  which 
were  made  from  such  twigs  and  branches  as  were 
available.  Emellan  found  some  friends  who  also 
had  a  fire,  and  round  which  they  were  sitting  pre- 
paring their  food  and  drink.  The  sun  was  rising 
clear  and  bright,  and  the  general  merriment  was 
increasing.  The  air  was  filled  with  singing  and 
chattering,  and  with  jokes  and  laughter.  Every- 
thing gave  rise  to  pleasure,  but  still  greater  pleas- 
ures were  in  store.  Emellan  had  a  drink,  and, 
lighting  a  cigarette,  felt  happier  than  ever. 

The  people  were  wearing  their  best  clothes,  but 
several  rich  merchants,  with  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, were  also  noticeable  among  the  well-dressed 
working  men.     RIna  Golltsin,  too,  was  remarka- 


266  KHODINKA 

ble  as  she  walked  at  her  cousin's  side  between  the 
wood  fires,  happy  and  radiant  at  having  got  her 
own  way,  and  at  the  thought  of  celebrating  with 
the  people  the  accession  to  the  throne  of  a  Tsar 
who  was  adored  by  them. 

"  Here's  to  your  health,  good  lady,"  cried  a 
factory  hand  to  her,  raising  his  glass  to  his  lips. 
"  Don't  refuse  to  break  bread  with  us." 

"Thank  you." 

"  You  ought  to  answer  '  a  good  appetite  to 
you,' "  whispered  her  cousin,  showing  off  his 
knowledge  of  popular  customs,  and  they  moved 
on. 

Accustomed  to  occupy  the  best  places  every- 
where, they  penetrated  through  the  crowd,  going 
straight  for  the  pavilion.  The  crowd  was  so  dense 
thaty  notwithstanding  the  bright  weather,  a  thick 
mist  caused  by  the  breath  of  the  people,  hung  over 
the  field.     But  the  police  would  not  let  them  pass. 

"  I'm  rather  glad,"  said  RIna.  "  Let  us  re- 
turn," and  so  they  went  back  Into  the  crowd. 

"  Lies,  all  lies,"  said  Emellan,  seated  with  his 
companions  In  a  circle  round  the  food  which  was 
spread  out  on  white  paper  —  In  answer  to  a  young 
factory  hand  who,  on  approaching  them,  told  them 
that  the  distribution  of  gifts  had  begun. 

"  I  tell  you  It  Is  so.  It's  contrary  to  regula- 
tions, but  they  have  begun.     I  saw  it  myself. 


KHODINKA  267 

Each  one  receives  a  mug  and  a  packet  and  away 
they  go." 

"  Of  course,  what  do  the  crazy  commissionaires 
care?     They  give  as  they  choose." 

"  But  why  should  they,  how  can  they  —  against 
regulations?" 

"  You  see  they  can." 

"  Let's  go,  friends.    Why  should  we  wait?  " 

They  all  rose.  Emelian  pocketed  his  bottle  with 
the  remains  of  the  vodka  and  advanced  with  his 
comrades.  They  had  not  gone  more  than  twenty 
yards  when  the  crowd  became  so  dense  that  It  was 
difficult  to  stir. 

"  What  are  you  pushing  for?  " 

"  You're  pushing  yourself." 

"  You're  not  the  only  one  here." 

"  That'll  do." 

"  Oh,  Lord  1  I'm  crushed  I  "  cried  a  woman's 
voice. 

A  child  could  be  heard  screaming  on  the  other 
side. 

"Goto-^" 

"How  dare  you?  Are  you  the  only  one? 
Everything  will  be  taken  before  we  get  there. 
But  I'll  be  even  with  them,  the  beasts,  the  devils," 
cried  Emelian,  squaring  his  stalwart  shoulders  and 
elbowing  his  way  forward  as  best  he  could.  See- 
ing every  one  else  was  elbowing  and  pushing  he, 


268  KHODINKA 

without  knowing  exactly  why,  also  began  to  try  to 
force  a  way  for  himself  through  the  crowd.  On 
every  side  people  were  crushing  him,  but  those  In 
front  did  not  move  or  let  any  one  through  their 
ranks  —  and  all  were  shouting  and  shrieking  and 
groaning. 

Emellan  silently  clenched  his  strong  teeth  and 
frowned,  but  without  losing  heart  or  strength  he 
steadily  continued  to  push  those  in  front,  though 
he  made  but  little  progress. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  sudden  agitation;  the 
steady  surging  and  swaying  was  followed  by  a  rush 
forward  to  the  right.  Emellan  looked  to  that  side 
and  saw  something  whizz  over  his  head  and  fall 
among  the  crowd.  One,  two,  three  —  he  realised 
what  It  meant,  and  a  voice  near  him  exclaimed : 

"  Cursed  devils  —  they  are  throwing  the  things 
among  the  crowd !  " 

The  sound  of  screaming,  laughing  and  groaning 
came  from  that  part  of  the  crowd  where  the  bags 
were  falling.  Some  one  gave  Emellan  a  severe 
blow  In  the  ribs  which  made  him  even  gloomier 
and  angrier,  but  before  he  had  time  to  recover 
from  the  blow  some  one  else  had  trodden  on  his 
foot.  Then  his  coat,  his  new  coat,  caught  and  was 
torn.  With  a  feeling  of  maliciousness  In  his  heart 
he  exerted  all  his  strength  to  advance  when  some- 
thing suddenly  happened  which  he  could  not  under- 


KHODINKA  269 

stand;  and  he  found  himself  In  an  open  space  and 
could  see  the  tents,  where  the  mugs  and  packets  of 
sweets  were  to  be  distributed.  Up  to  then  he  had 
seen  nothing  but  the  backs  of  other  people  In  front 
of  him. 

He  felt  glad,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  he 
realised  that  the  reason  he  could  see  all  these 
was  because  those  who  were  In  front  had  reached 
the  trench  and  were  slipping  or  rolling  over  Into 
It,  and  that  he  himself  was  knocked  down  on  top 
of  a  mass  of  people.  He  was  tumbling  on  those 
below,  and  others  from  behind  him  were  in  their 
turn  tumbling  on  him.  For  the  first  time  he  felt 
afraid.  As  he  fell,  a  woman  In  a  woollen  shawl 
stumbled  over  him.  Shaking  her  off,  he  tried  to 
turn  round,  but  those  behind  prevented  him  and 
his  strength  began  to  fail.  Then  some  one 
clutched  his  legs  and  screamed.  He  neither  saw 
nor  heard  anything,  but  fought  his  way  through, 
treading  on  human  beings  on  all  sides. 

"  Friends,  help, —  take  my  watch  —  my  gold 
watch,"  shrieked  a  man  near  him. 

"  Who  wants  a  watch  now?  "  thought  Emellan, 
climbing  out  to  the  other  side  of  the  trench. 

His  heart  was  divided  between  fear  —  fear  for 
himself  and  for  his  own  life  —  and  anger  at  those 
wild  creatures  who  were  pushing  him.  In  spite  of 
this,  the  aim  with  which  he  had  set  out  —  to  reach 


270  KHODINKA 

the  tents  and  get  hold  of  a  packet  with  a  lottery 
ticket  —  still  drew  him  on. 

The  tents  were  now  close  at  hand.  He  could 
see  the  distributors  quite  distinctly  and  could  hear 
the  cries  of  those  who  had  arrived  at  the  tents 
and  the  creaking  of  the  boards  on  which  the  people 
in  front  were  crowding. 

Emelian  stumbled.  He  had  only  about  twenty 
paces  more  to  go  when  he  heard  a  child's  scream 
under  or  rather  between  his  feet.  Emelian  looked 
down  and  saw  a  bare-headed  boy  in  a  torn  shirt 
lying  face  downwards,  crying  incessantly,  and 
clutching  at  his  legs.  He  felt  his  heart  stop  beat- 
ing. All  fear  for  himself  immediately  disap- 
peared and  with  it  his  anger  against  the  rest.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  boy  and,  stooping  down,  put  his 
arm  round  his  waist,  but  those  behind  him  were 
pushing  so  violently  that  he  nearly  fell  and  let  go 
the  child.  Summoning  his  strength  for  a  supreme 
effort  he  caught  him  up  again  and  lifted  him  on 
his  shoulders.  For  a  moment  the  crush  became 
less  and  Emelian  managed  to  carry  off  the  child. 

"  Give  him  to  me,"  cried  a  coachman  who  was 
at  Emelian's  side,  and  taking  the  boy,  raised  him 
above  the  crowd. 

"  Run  over  the  people." 

Looking  back,  Emelian  saw  how  the  child 
walked  further  and  further  away,  over  the  heads 


KHODINKA  271 

and  shoulders  of  the  swaying  mass,  now  rising 
above  it,  now  vanishing  in  the  crowd. 

Emelian,  however,  continued  to  advance.  He 
could  not  help  doing  so ;  but  he  was  no  longer  at- 
tracted by  the  gifts  and  had  no  desire  to  reach  the 
tents.  He  thought  of  the  little  boy  Yasha,  of 
those  who  had  been  trampled  on,  and  of  those 
whom  he  had  seen  as  he  crossed  the  trench. 

When  he  reached  the  pavilion  at  last  he  received 
a  mug  and  a  packet  of  sweets,  but  they  gave  him 
no  pleasure.  What  pleased  him  was  that  the 
crush  was  over,  and  that  he  could  breathe  and 
move  about;  but  his  pleasure,  however,  only  lasted 
a  moment,  on  account  of  the  sight  which  met  his 
eyes.  A  woman,  in  a  torn  striped  shawl  and  in 
buttoned  boots  which  stuck  straight  up,  with  her 
brown  hair  loose  and  in  disorder,  was  lying  on  her 
back.  One  hand  lay  on  the  grass,  the  other,  with 
closed  fingers,  was  folded  below  her  breast.  Her 
face  was  white  —  that  bluish  white  peculiar  to 
the  dead.  She  was  the  first  who  had  been  crushed 
to  death  and  had  been  thrown  over  the  fence  right 
in  front  of  the  Tsar's  pavilion. 

When  Emelian  caught  sight  of  her,  two  police- 
men were  standing  over  her,  and  a  police  officer 
was  giving  them  directions.  A  minute  after  a  few 
Cossacks  rode  up  and  no  sooner  had  their  officer 
given  them  some  order,  than  they  rode  full  speed 


272  KHODINKA 

at  Emelian  and  at  the  others  who  were  standing 
there,  and  drove  them  back  Into  the  crowd.  Eme- 
lian was  again  caught  In  the  whirl.  The  crush 
became  worse  than  ever;  and  to  add  to  the  horror, 
one  and  the  same  everlasting  crying  and  groaning 
of  women  and  children,  and  men  trampling  their 
fellows  under  foot  —  and  not  able  to  help  doing 
so.  Emelian  was  no  longer  terrified  or  angry 
with  those  who  were  crushing  him.  He  had  but 
one  desire  —  to  get  out,  to  be  free,  to  have  a  smoke 
and  a  drink,  and  to  explain  the  meaning  of  those 
feelings  which  arose  In  his  mind. 

He  longed  for  a  smoke  and  a  drink,  and  when 
at  last  he  managed  to  get  away  from  the  throng, 
he  satisfied  his  craving  for  these. 

It  was  not  so  with  Alec  and  Rlna.  As  they  did 
not  expect  anything,  they  moved  about  among  the 
people  who  were  seated  in  groups,  chatting  with 
the  women  and  children,  when  the  whole  people 
suddenly  made  a  rush  for  the  pavilion,  the  rumour 
having  spread  that  the  sweets  and  mugs  were  being 
given  away  contrary  to  regulations,  and  before 
Rina  had  time  to  turn  round,  she  was  separated 
from  Alec  and  carried  along  by  the  crowd,  and  was 
overcome  by  terror.  She  tried  to  be  quiet,  but 
could  not  help  screaming  out  for  mercy.  But 
there  was  no  mercy,  for  they  pressed  round  her 


KHODINKA  273 

more  and  more.  Her  dress  was  torn,  and  her  hat 
also  fell  off.  She  could  not  be  quite  sure,  but  she 
thought  some  one  snatched  at  her  watch  and  chain. 
Though  she  was  a  strong  girl  and  might  have 
resisted,  she  was  in  mortal  fear  not  being  able 
to  breathe.  Ragged  and  battered  she  just  man- 
aged to  keep  on  her  feet. 

But  the  moment  the  Cossacks  charged  the  crowd 
to  disperse  it,  Rina  lost  hope  and  directly  she 
yielded  to  despair,  her  strength  failed  her  and  she 
fainted.  Falling  down  she  was  not  conscious  of 
anything  further. 

When  she  regained  consciousness  she  was  lying 
on  the  grass.  A  bearded  working  man  in  a  torn 
coat  was  squatting  beside  her  and  squirting  water 
into  her  face  as  she  opened  her  eyes;  the  man 
crossed  himself  and  spat  out  the  water.  It  was 
Emelian. 

"  Who  are  you?     Where  am  I?  " 

"  You Ve  on  Khodinka  field.  Who  am  I?  Fm 
a  man,  IVe  been  badly  crushed  myself,  but  the 
likes  of  us  can  stand  a  good  deal,"  said  Eme- 
lian. 

"What's  this?"  Rina  asked,  pointing  to  the 
coppers  that  lay  on  her  breast. 

"  That's  because  people  thought  you  were  dead, 
they  gave  coppers  for  your  burial.     But  I  had  a, 


274  KHODINKA 

good  loot  at  you  and  thought  to  myself:  *  No, 
she's  alive,*  and  I  got  some  water  for  you." 

Rina  glanced  at  herself  and  seeing  her  torn  dress 
and  bare  breast,  felt  ashamed.  The  man  under- 
stood and  covered  her. 

**  You're  all  right,  miss,  you'll  not  die." 

People  came  up  and  also  a  policeman,  while 
Rina  sat  up,  and  gave  her  father's  name  and  ad- 
dress, and  Emelian  went  for  the  cab.  The  crowd 
round  her  continued  to  increase.  When  Emelian 
returned  with  the  cab,  she  rose,  and  refusing  help, 
got  into  the  vehicle  by  herself.  She  was  so 
ashamed  of  the  condition  she  was  in. 

"  Where  is  your  cousin?  "  asked  an  old  woman. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,"  said  Rina  in 
despair. 

(On  reaching  home  she  learnt  that  Alec  had 
managed  to  leave  the  crowd  when  the  crush  first 
began  and  he  returned  home  safely.) 

"  That  man  saved  me,"  said  Rina.  "  If  it  had 
not  been  for  him,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
happened." 

"What  is  you  name?"  she  said,  turning  to 
Emelian. 

"  Mine?    What  does  my  name  matter?  " 

"  She's  a  princess,"  a  woman  whispered  in  his 
ear.     "  Ri-i-i-ch." 

"  Come  with  me  to  my  father,  he  will  thank 


KHODINKA  275 

you."  Suddenly  the  heart  of  Emelian  seemed  to 
be  Infused  with  a  kind  of  strength  so  that  he 
would  not  have  exchanged  this  feeling  for  a  lottery 
ticket  worth  200,000  roubles. 

"  Nonsense,  go  home,  miss.  What  is  there  to 
thank  me  for?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     I  would  so  much  rather. 

"  Good-bye,  miss,  God  be  with  you.  But,  there, 
don't  take  away  my  overcoat,'*  and  he  showed  his 
white  teeth  with  a  merry  smile  which  lived  in 
Rina's  memory  to  console  her  for  the  most  terrible 
moments  of  her  life. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  A  MOTHER 


INTRODUCTION  TO  ''  A  MOTHER  » 

I  HAD  known  Marie  Alexandrovna  ever  since  we 
were  children.  As  so  often  happens  with  young 
people,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  love-making 
about  our  companionship,  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  one  evening  when  she  was  at  our  house 
and  we  played  "  Ladles  and  Gentlemen."  She 
was  fifteen,  with  plump,  rosy  hands,  beautiful 
dark  eyes,  and  a  thick  plait  of  black  hair.  I  was 
so  impressed  by  her  during  that  evening  that  I 
imagined  that  I  was  in  love  with  her.  But  that 
was  the  only  time ;  during  all  the  rest  of  our  forty 
years'  acquaintance  we  were  on  those  excellent 
terms  of  friendship  which  exist  between  a  man  and 
a  woman  who  mutually  respect  each  other,  which 
are  so  delightful  when  —  as  in  our  case  —  they 
are  free  from  any  idea  of  love-making. 

I  got  a  lot  of  enjoyment  out  of  our  friendship, 
and  it  taught  me  a  great  deal.  I  have  never 
known  a  woman  who  more  perfectly  typified  the 
good  wife,  the  good  mother.  Through  her  I 
learned  much,  and  came  to  understand  manjr 
things. 

279 


28o    INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

I  saw  her  for  the  last  time  last  year,  only  a 
month  before  her  death,  which  neither  of  us  ex- 
pected. She  had  just  settled  down  to  live  alone 
with  Barbara,  her  cook,  In  the  grounds  of  a  mon- 
astery. It  was  very  strange  to  see  this  mother 
of  eight  children  —  this  woman  who  had  nearly 
fifty  grandchildren  —  living  alone  in  that  way. 
But  there  was  an  evident  finality  about  her  deter- 
mination to  live  by  herself  for  the  rest  of  her  days 
In  spite  of  the  more  or  less  sincere  invitations  of 
her  family.  As  I  knew  her  to  be,  I  will  not  say  a 
free-thinker,  for  she  never  laid  any  stress  on  that, 
but  one  who  thought  for  herself  with  courage  and 
common  sense,  I  was  puzzled  at  first  to  see  her 
taking  up  her  abode  In  the  precincts  of  a  monas- 
tery. 

I  knew  that  her  heart  was  too  full  of  real  feeling 
to  have  any  room  for  superstition,  and  I  was  well 
aware  of  her  hatred  of  hypocrisy  and  of  every- 
thing Pharisaical.  Then  suddenly  came  this  house 
close  to  the  monastery,  this  regular  attendance  at 
church  services,  and  this  complete  submission  to 
the  guidance  of  the  priest.  Father  Nicodim,  though 
all  this  was  done  unostentatiously  and  with  moder- 
ation, as  If  she  were  somewhat  ashamed  of  It. 

When  we  met  It  was  evident  that  she  wished  to 
avoid  all  discussion  of  her  reasons  for  choosing 
a  life  of  that  sort.     But  I  think  that  I  understood. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"    281 

Although  she  had  a  sceptical  mind,  it  was  dom- 
inated by  the  fulness  of  her  heart.  When,  after 
forty  years  of  household  activity,  she  found  that 
all  her  children  had  outgrown  the  need  for  her 
care,  she  was  at  a  loose  end,  and  it  became  neces- 
sary to  seek  some  fresh  occupation  for  her  heart, 
some  fresh  outlet  for  her  feelings.  Since  the 
homes  of  her  children  could  not  satisfy  her  crav- 
ings, she  decided  to  go  into  retreat,  hoping  that 
she  would  find  the  solace  which  others  found  In 
seclusion,  the  consolation  of  religion.  Though 
her  pride,  both  on  her  own  account  and  for  the 
sake  of  her  children,  prevented  her  from  giving 
more  than  the  merest  hint  of  the  truth,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  she  was  unhappy. 

I  knew  all  her  children,  and  when  I  inquired 
after  them  she  answered  reluctantly,  for  she  never 
blamed  them.  But  I  could  see  what  a  tragedy, 
or  rather,  what  a  series  of  tragedies  lay  buried  in 
her  heart. 

"  Yes,  Volodia  has  done  very  well,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  President  of  the  Chamber,  and  has  bought 
an  estate.  .  .  .  Yes,  his  children  are  growing  up 
—  three  boys  and  two  girls,"  and  as  she  stopped 
talking  her  black  eyebrows  were  contracted  into 
a  frown,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  making  an 
effort  to  prevent  herself  from  expressing  her 
thoughts,  trying  to  rid  herself  of  them. 


282    INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER'* 

"Well,  and  Basil?" 

"  Basil  IS  just  the  same;  you  know  the  sort  of 
man  he  Is." 

"  Still  devoted  to  society?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  he  any  children  ?  " 

"  Three." 

That  Is  how  we  talked  when  her  sons  and 
daughters  were  our  subject  of  conversation. 

She  would  rather  talk  of  Peter  than  of  the 
others.  He  was  the  failure  of  the  family  —  he 
had  squandered  all  that  he  had,  did  not  pay  his 
debts,  and  caused  his  mother  more  distress  than 
any  of  them.  But  he  was  her  best-beloved  in 
spite  of  his  waywardness,  for  she  saw,  as  she  put 
It,  his  "  heart  of  gold." 

There  Is  often  a  peculiar  charm  about  the  rem- 
iniscences of  those  who  have  gone  through  hid- 
den sorrows,  and  It  was  only  when  we  touched 
on  the  days  of  her  careless  youth  that  she  let 
herself  go.  Our  last  talk  was  the  best  of  them 
all,  so  delightful  that  I  did  not  leave  her  home 
until  after  midnight.  It  was  full  of  tender  sym- 
pathy. It  was  about  Peter  Nikiforovlch,  the  first 
tutor  her  children  ever  had.  He  was  a  graduate 
of  Moscow  University,  and  he  died  of  consump- 
tion In  her  house.  He  was  a  remarkable  man, 
and  had  exercised  a  great  influence   over  her. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"    283 

Though  she  did  not  realise  it,  he  was  the  only  man 
whom  she  could,  or  did,  love  besides  her  husband. 

We  talked  about  him  and  about  his  theories  of 
life,  views  which  I  had  known  and  shared  at  the 
time.  He  was  not  exactly  a  disciple  of  Rousseau, 
though  he  knew  and  approved  of  his  theories,  but 
he  had  a  mind  of  the  same  type.  He  very  much 
resembled  our  usual  conception  of  the  wise  men 
of  antiquity.  He  was  full  of  the  gentle  humility 
of  unconscious  Christianity.  Though  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  hated  the  teachings  of  Christianity, 
his  whole  life  was  one  long  self-sacrifice.  He 
was  obviously  wretched  when  he  could  find  no 
opportunity  to  deny  himself  something  for  the 
sake  of  others,  and  It  must  be  something  that 
could  only  be  relinquished  with  suffering  and  diffi- 
culty. Then  he  was  really  happy.  He  was  as  in- 
nocent as  a  child  and  as  tender  as  a  woman. 

There  may  be  some  doubt  as  to  whether  she 
loved  him;  but  there  could  be  absolutely  no  doubt 
that  she  was  his  only  love,  his  Idol,  for  any  one 
who  ever  saw  him  In  her  presence.  To  banish 
any  shadow  of  question,  It  was  quite  enough  to 
watch  his  great,  round,  blue  eyes  following  her 
every  movement,  reflecting  every  shade  of  expres- 
sion on  her  face;  frail  and  attenuated  as  he  was, 
In  his  shapeless,  ill-fitting  coat,  it  was  more  than 
enough  to  see  him  draw  himself  up,  to  note  how 


284    INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

he  bent  or  turned  toward  the  spot  which  she  occu- 
pied. 

Alexis  Nicolaevich,  her  late  husband,  knew  it, 
and  did  not  mind  In  the  least,  frequently  leaving 
him  alone  with  her  and  the  children  for  whole 
evenings.  The  children  knew  it.  They  loved 
both  their  mother  and  their  tutor,  and  thought  it 
only  natural  that  their  mother  and  their  tutor 
should  love  one  another. 

Alexis  Nicolaevlch's  only  precaution  was  to  call 
him  "  Peter  the  Wise."  He,  too,  loved  him  and 
respected  him;  indeed,  he  could  not  help  respect- 
ing him  for  his  exceptional  affectionate  devotion  to 
the  children,  and  for  the  unusual  loftiness  of  his 
morality;  and  never  for  a  moment  did  he  think  of 
passion  between  him  and  his  wife  as  a  posslbihty. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  she  did  love  him. 
His  death  was  not  only  a  deep  grief,  but  a  bereave- 
ment. Certain  sides  of  her  nature,  the  best,  the 
fundamental,  the  most  essential,  withered  away 
after  his  death. 

So  we  talked  about  him,  and  about  his  opinions 
on  life;  how  he  had  believed  that  the  highest 
morality  lay  in  taking  from  others  as  little  as 
possible,  and  in  giving  to  others  as  much  as  pos- 
sible of  oneself,  of  one's  soul;  and  how,  in  order 
that  one  might  take  as  little  as  possible,  he  believed 
that  one  should  cultivate  what  Plato  ranked  as  the 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHERS'    285 

highest  virtue,  abstinence:  that  one  should  sleep 
on  a  plank  bed,  wear  the  same  clothing  winter  and 
summer,  have  bread  and  water  for  one*s  nourish- 
ment, or,  as  a  great  indulgence,  milk.  (That  was 
how  he  had  lived,  and  Marie  Alexandrovna  thought 
that  that  was  how  he  had  ruined  his  health.)  He 
had  held  that,  to  equip  oneself  for  giving  to  others, 
It  was  essential  to  develop  one*s  spiritual  forces, 
chief  among  which  was  love,  dynamic  love,  de- 
voted to  service  In  life,  to  uplifting  of  life.  He 
would  have  brought  up  the  children  on  these  lines 
If  he  could  have  had  his  way;  but  their  parents 
insisted  upon  some  concession  to  convention,  and 
an  excellent  compromise  was  adopted.  But  un- 
fortunately, his  regime  did  not  last  long,  as  he 
only  lived  with  them  for  four  years. 

"  Just  think  of  it,"  said  Marie  Alexandrovna, 
"  I  have  taken  to  reading  religious  tracts,  I  listen 
to  Father  NIcodim's  sermons,  and  believe  me  "• — • 
here  her  smiling  eyes  shone  with  a  glance  so  bright 
that  it  brought  to  mind  the  Independence  of 
thought  which  was  so  characteristic  of  her  —  "  be- 
lieve me,  all  these  pious  exhortations  are  infinitely 
Inferior  to  the  sayings  of  Peter  Niklforovlch. 
They  deal  with  the  same  things,  but  on  a  much 
lower  plane.  But,  above  all,  he  taught  one  not 
so  much  by  precept  as  by  practice.  And  how 
did  he  do  it?    Why,  his  whole  life  was  a  flame, 


286    INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER'' 

and  It  consumed  him.  Do  you  remember  when 
MItia  and  Vera  had  scarlatina  —  you  were  stay- 
ing with  us  —  do  you  remember  how  he  sat  up  at 
night  with  them,  but  insisted  upon  going  on  with 
his  lessons  with  the  older  children  during  the  day? 
He  regarded  It  as  a  sacred  duty.  And  then,  when 
Barbara's  boy  was  111,  he  did  the  same  thing,  and 
was  quite  angry  because  we  would  not  have  the 
child  moved  to  our  house.  Barbara  was  talking 
about  him  only  the  other  day.  Then  when  Vania, 
the  page  boy,  broke  his  bust  of  some  sage  or  other, 
do  you  remember  how,  after  scolding  him,  he  went 
out  of  his  way  to  atone  for  his  anger,  begged  the 
boy's  pardon,  and  bought  him  a  ticket  for  the 
circus.  He  was  a  wonderful  man.  He  Insisted 
that  the  sort  of  life  we  led  was  not  worth  living, 
and  begged  my  husband  to  give  up  our  land  to  the 
peasants  and  to  live  by  his  own  labour.  Alexan- 
der only  laughed.  But  the  advice  had  been  given 
quite  earnestly,  from  a  sense  of  duty. 

"  He  had  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  and  he  was 
right.  Yet  we  went  on  living  just  as  others  did, 
and  what  was  the  result  ?  I  made  a  round  of  visits 
last  year,  to  all  my  children  except  Peter.  Well, 
what  did  I  find?  Were  they  happy?  Still  It  was 
not  possible  to  alter  everything  as  he  wanted.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  the  first  man  fell  and  that 
sin  came  into  the  world." 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"    287 

That  was  our  last  talk.  "  I  have  done  a  great 
deal  of  thinking  in  my  loneliness,*'  she  said;  **  in- 
deed, I  have  done  more  than  thinking;  I  have  done 
some  writing,"  and  she  smiled  at  me  with  an  air  of 
embarrassment  that  gave  her  aged  face  a  sweet, 
wistful  expression.  "  I  have  put  down  my 
thoughts  about  all  these  things,  or  rather,  the  out- 
come of  my  experiences.  I  kept  a  diary  before  I 
was  married,  and  afterwards  too,  for  a  time. 
But  I  gave  it  up  later,  when  it  all  began,  about  ten 
years  ago."  She  did  not  say  what  had  begun, 
but  I  knew  that  she  meant  the  strained  relations 
with  her  older  children,  the  misunderstandings, 
and  the  contentions.  She  had  had  the  entire  con- 
trol of  the  family  estate  after  her  husband's  death. 
"  In  looking  through  my  possessions  here  I  found 
my  old  diaries  and  re-read  them.  There  Is  a  good 
deal  in  them  that  is  silly,  but  there  is  a  good  deal 
that  Is  good,  and  " —  again  the  same  smile  — "  in- 
structive, too.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  at 
first  whether  to  burn  them  or  not,  so  I  asked 
Father  Nicodim,  and  he  said,  *  Burn  them.'  But 
that  was  all  nonsense,  you  know.  He  could  not 
understand.  So  I  didn't  burn  them."  How  well 
I  recognised  her  characteristic  illogical  consistency. 
She  was  obedient  to  Father  Nicodim  in  most 
things,  and  had  settled  near  the  monastery  to  be 
under  his  guidance ;  but  when  she  thought  that  his 


288    INTRODUCTION  TO  *'A  MOTHER" 

judgment  was  irrational,  she  did  what  seemed  best 
to  her. 

"  Not  only  did  I  not  burn  them,  I  wrote  two 
more  volumes.  There  Is  nothing  to  do  here,  so  I 
wrote  what  I  thought  about  it  all,  and  when  I  die 
—  I  don't  mean  to  die  yet :  my  mother  lived  to  be 
seventy,  and  my  father  eighty  —  but  when  I  do  die 
these  books  are  to  be  sent  to  you.  You  are  to 
read  them  and  to  decide  whether  there  is  anything 
of  real  value  in  them,  and  if  there  is,  you  will  let 
others  share  it.  For  no  one  seems  to  know.  We 
go  on  suffering  incessantly  for  our  children,  from' 
before  their  birth  until  the  time  comes  when  they 
begin  to  insist  on  their  rights.  Think  of  the 
sleepless  nights,  the  anxiety,  the  pain  and  the 
despair  we  go  through.  It  would  not  matter  if 
they  really  loved  us,  or  even  if  they  were  happy. 
But  they  don't,  and  they  aren't.  I  don't  care  what 
you  say,  there  is  something  wrong  somewhere. 
That  is  what  I  have  written  about.  You  will  read 
it  when  I  am  dead.  But  I  have  said  enough  about 
it." 

I  promised,  though  I  assured  her  that  I  did  not 
expect  to  outlive  her.  We  parted,  and  a  month 
later  I  received  the  news  of  her  death.  Feeling 
faint  at  vespers,  she  had  sat  down  on  a  little  fold- 
ing stool  she  carried  with  her,  leaned  her  head 
against  the  wall,  and  died.    It  was  some  sort  of 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"    289 

heart  trouble.  I  went  to  the  funeral.  All  the  chil- 
dren were  there  except  Helen,  who  was  abroad, 
and  Mitia  —  the  one  who  had  had  scarlatina  — 
who  could  not  go  because  he  was  in  the  Caucasus 
undergoing  a  cure  for  a  serious  illness. 

It  was  an  ostentatious  funeral,  and  its  display 
inspired  the  monks  with  more  respect  for  her  than 
they  had  felt  while  she  was  alive.  Her  belongings 
were  divided  up  rather  as  keepsakes  than  with  a 
view  to  any  intrinsic  value.  In  momory  of  our 
friendship,  I  received  her  malachite  paper-weight 
as  well  as  six  old  leather-bound  diaries  and  four 
new  ordinary  manuscript  books  in  which,  as  she 
had  said,  she  had  written  *'  about  it  all ''  while 
living  near  the  monastery. 

The  book  contains  this  remarkable  woman's* 
touching  and  instructive  story. 

As  I  knew  her  and  her  husband  throughout  their 
^Ife  together,  and  watched  the  growth  and  devel- 
opment of  her  children  from  the  time  of  their 
birth  to  the  time  of  their  marriage,  I  have  been 
able  to  fill  In  any  omission  In  her  memoirs  from 
my  own  reminiscences  whenever  It  has  seemed 
necessary  to  make  the  story  more  clear. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

It  is  the  3rd  of  May  1857,  and  I  begin  a  new 
diary.  My  old  one  covers  a  long  period,  but  I 
did  not  write  It  properly^  there  was  too  much  in- 
trospection, too  much  sentimentality  and  nonsense 
—  about  being  In  love  with  Ivan  Zakharovich  — 
the  desire  to  be  famous,  or  to  enter  a  convent.  I 
have  just  read  over  a  good  deal  that  was  nice, 
written  when  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen.  But  now 
it  Is  quite  different.  I  am  twenty,  and  I  really  am 
in  love  and  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  I  do  not  worry 
myself  with  fears  as  to  whether  it  Is  real,  or 
whether  this  is  what  true  love  should  be,  or 
whether  my  love  Is  Inadequate;  on  the  contrary, 
I  am  afraid  that  this  Is  the  real  thing,  fate;  that 
I  love  far,  far  too  much,  and  cannot  help  loving, 
and  I  am  afraid.  There  is  something  serious  and 
dignified  about  him  —  his  face,  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  his  cheery  word  —  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  is  always  bright  and  laughing,  and  can  turn 
everything  round  so  that  it  becomes  graceful, 
clever,  and  humorous.  Every  one  is  amused,  and 
so  am  I;  yet  there  is  something  solemn  about  It. 

293 


294    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

Our  eyes  meet;  they  pierce  deep,  deep  down  into 
the  other's,  and  go  farther  and  farther.  I  am 
frightened,  and  I  see  that  he  is  too. 

But  I  will  describe  It  all  in  order.  He  is  the 
son  of  Anna  Pavlovna  Lutkovsky,  and  is  related 
to  the  Obolenskys  and  the  Mikashins;  his  eldest 
brother  is  the  Lutkovsky  who  distinguished  him- 
self at  the  siege  of  Sevastopol,  and  he  himself, 
Alexis,*  is  mine,  yes  mine  I  He  was  in  Sevas- 
topol, too,  but  only  because  he  did  not  want  to 
be  safe  at  home  when  other  men  were  dying 
there.  He  is  above  ambition.  After  the  cam- 
paign he  left  the  army,  and  did  some  sort  of  work 
in  Petersburg;  now  he  has  come  to  our  province, 
and  Is  on  the  Committee.  He  is  young,  but 
he  is  liked  and  appreciated.  Michel  brought 
him  to  our  house,  and  he  became  intimate  with  us 
at  once.  Mother  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and  was 
very  friendly.  Father,  as  usual  with  all  young 
men  who  wished  to  marry  his  daughters,  received 
him  coldly.  He  at  once  began  to  pay  attention 
to  Madia,  the  sort  of  attention  men  do  pay  to  girls 
of  sixteen;  but  In  my  innermost  heart  I  knew  at 
once  that  It  was  I,  only  I  did  not  dare  to  own 
it  even  to  myself.  He  used  to  come  often;  and 
from  the  first  day,  although  nothing  was  said,  I 
knew  that  It  was  all  over  —  that  It  was  he.     Yes- 

*  "  Peter  "  is  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER    295 

terday,  on  leaving,  he  pressed  my  hand.  We 
were  on  the  landing  of  the  staircase.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing.  He 
looked  at  me,  and  he  blushed  also;  and  lost  his 
head  so  completely  that  he  turned  round  and  ran 
downstairs,  dropped  his  hat,  picked  it  up,  and 
stopped  outside  In  the  porch. 

I  went  upstairs  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
His  carriage  drove  up,  but  he  did  not  get  In.  I 
leaned  out  to  look  Into  the  porch.  He  was  stand- 
ing there,  stroking  his  beard  Into  his  mouth,  and 
biting  It.  I  was  afraid  he  might  turn  round,  and 
so  I  moved  away  from  the  window,  and  at  the 
same  moment  I  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs.  He 
was  running  up  quickly,  Impetuously.  How  I 
knew  I  cannot  say,  but  I  went  to  the  door  and 
stood  still,  waiting.  My  heart  ceased  to  beat;  It 
seemed  to  stand  still,  and  my  breast  heaved  pain- 
fully, yet  joyfully.  Why  I  knew  I  cannot  say. 
But  I  knew.  He  might  very  well  have  run  up- 
stairs and  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  forgot  my 
cigarettes,'*  or  something  like  that.  That  might 
very  well  have  happened.  What  should  I  have 
done  then?  But  no,  that  was  Impossible.  What 
was  to  be  —  was.  His  face  was  solemn,  timid, 
determined,  and  joyful.  His  eyes  shone,  his  lips 
quivered.  He  had  his  overcoat  on,  and  held  his 
hat  m  his  hand.     We  were  alone  e=^  every  one 


296    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

was  on  the  veranda,  "  Marie  Alexandrovna,"  * 
he  said,  stopping  on  the  last  step,  "  it's  best  to 
have  It  over  once  for  all  than  to  go  on  in  misery, 
and  perhaps  to  upset  you."  I  felt  ill  at  ease,  but 
painfully  happy.  Those  dear  eyes,  that  beautiful 
forehead,  those  trembling  lips,  so  much  more  used 
to  smiling,  and  the  timidity  of  the  strong  energetic 
figure !  I  felt  sobs  rising  to  my  throat.  I  expect 
he  saw  the  expression  on  my  face. 

**  Marie  Alexandrovna,*  you  know  what  I  want 
to  tell  you,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  "...  I  began.     "  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  you  know  what  I  mean 
to  ask  you,  and  do  not  dare."  He  broke  off,  and 
then,  suddenly,  as  though  angry  with  himself: 
"  Well,  what  Is  to  be,  will  be.  Can  you  love  me 
as  I  love  you ;  be  my  wife.    Yes  or  no  ?  " 

I  could  not  speak.  Joy  suffocated  me.  I  held 
out  my  hand.  He  took  It  and  kissed  It.  "  Is  it 
really  yes?  Truly?  Yes?  You  knew,  didn't 
you.  I  have  suffered  so  long.  I  need  not  go 
away?" 

"  No,  no." 

I  said  that  I  loved  him,  and  we  kissed ;  and  that 
first  kiss  seemed  strange  and  unpleasant  rather  than 
pleasant,  our  lips  just  touching  the  other's  face, 

♦"Barbara  Nicolaevna"  in  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER    297 

as  though  by  chance.  He  went  down  and  sent 
away  his  carriage,  and  I  ran  off  to  mother.  She 
iwent  to  father,  who  came  out  of  his  room.  It 
was  all  over  —  we  were  engaged.  It  was  past 
one  when  he  left,  and  he  will  come  again  to- 
morrow, and  the  wedding  will  be  in  a  month. 
He  wanted  it  to  be  next  week,  but  mother  would 
not  hear  of  it. 

It  was  fifty-seven  years  ago.  The  war  was  just 
over.  The  Voronov  household  was  busy  with 
wedding  preparations.  The.  second  daughter, 
Marie,*  was  engaged  to  Alexis  Lutkovsky.f 
They  had  known  each  other  since  childhood.} 
They  had  played  and  danced  together.  Now  he 
had  returned  from  Sevastopol,  with  the  rank  of 
lieutenant. 

At  the  very  height  of  the  war  he  had  left  the 
civil  service  to  join  a  regiment  as  an  ensign.  On 
his  return  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  to 
do.  He  felt  nothing  but  contempt  for  military 
service,  especially  in  the  Guards,  and  did  not  want 
to  go  on  with  it  in  time  of  peace.  But  an  uncle 
wanted  him  to  be  his  aide-de-camp  in  Kiev.  A 
cousin  offered  him  a  post  at  Constantinople.     His 

*  "  Barbara  "  in  the  original, 
t "  Evgraf  Lotukhine "  in  the  original. 

t  See  p.  294  where  she  says,  "  Michel  introduced  him  to  our 
house,"  etc. 


298    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

ex-chlef  asked  him  to  go  bacK  to  his  former  post. 
He  had  plenty  of  friends  and  relatives,  and  they 
iwere  all  fond  of  him.  They  were  not  quite  fond 
enough  of  him  to  miss  him  when  he  was  not 
there,  but  they  were  fond  enough  to  say  when  he 
appeared  (at  least  most  of  them) ,  "  Ah,  Alexis  I  * 
how  jolly!'*  He  was  never  in  any  one's  way, 
and  most  people  liked  to  have  him  about,  though 
for  very  different  reasons.  He  could  tell  stories, 
and  sing  or  play  the  guitar  in  first-rate  fashion. 
But,  above  all,  he  never  gave  himself  any  airs. 
He  was  clever,  good-looking,  good-natured,  and 
sympathetic.  While  he  was  looking  round  and 
discussing  where  and  with  whom  he  should  work, 
and  while  he  was  thinking  the  matter  over  and 
weighing  it  very  carefully,  notwithstanding  his 
seeming  indifference,  he  met  the  Voronovs  in 
Moscow.  They  invited  him  to  their  country- 
house,  where  he  went  and  stayed  a  week;  then  left, 
and  a  week  later  returned  and  proposed. 

He  was  accepted  with  great  pleasure.  It  was  a 
good  match.     He  became  engaged. 

**  There's  nothing  to  be  particularly  pleased 
about,"  said  old  Voronov  to  his  wife,  who  was 
standing  near  his  desk  looking  at  him  wist- 
fully. 

"  He  is  good-natured." 

•"Grisha"  in  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     299 

"  Good-natured,  indeed!  That's  not  the  point. 
But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  has  lived:  he  has  lived 
a  good  deal.  I  know  the  Lutkovsky  *  stock. 
What  has  he  got  except  good  Intentions  and 
his  service?  What  we  can  give  them  will  not 
provide  for  them.'* 

"  But  they  love  one  another,  and  they  have 
been  so  frank  about  It,"  she  said.  She  was  so 
gentle  and  so  mild. 

"Yes,  of  course,  he's  all  right.  They're  all 
alike,  but  I  wanted  some  one  better  for  Marle.f 
She  is  such  an  open-hearted,  tender  little  soul, 
There  was  something  else  I  had  wished  for.  But 
it  can't  be  helped.  Come."  And  they  left  the 
room  together. 

Just  at  first  father  seemed  displeased.  No,  not 
exactly  displeased,  but  sad,  not  quite  himself.  I 
know  him.  Just  as  though  he  did  not  like  him. 
I  cannot  understand  It;  I  am  not  the  only  one.  It 
is  not  because  I  am  engaged  to  him,  but  nobility, 
truthfulness,  and  purity  are  so  clearly  written  all 
over  his  being  that  one  could  not  find  more  of 
them  anywhere.  It  Is  evident  that  what  Is  In  his 
mind  is  on  his  tongue:  he  has  nothing  to  hide. 
He  only  hides  his  own  noble  qualities.  He  will 
not,  he  cannot  bear  to  speak  of  his  Sevastopol  ex- 

♦"Lotukhine"  in  the  original, 
t" Barbara"  in  the  original. 


300    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

ploits,  nor  about  Michel.  He  blushed  when  I 
spoke  of  him.  I  thank  Thee,  Lord.  I  desire 
nothing,  nothing  more. 

Lutkovsky  *  went  to  Moscow  to  make  prepar- 
ations for  the  wedding.  He  stopped  at  the  chev- 
alier, and  there  on  the  stairway  he  met  Souschov. 
"  Ah,  Alexlsjf  IS  it  true  that  you  are  going  to  get 
married?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true." 

"  I  congratulate  you.  I  know  them.  It  is  a 
charming  family.  I  knew  your  bride  too.  She 
Is  beautiful.     Let  us  have  dinner  together." 

They  dined  together,  and  had  first  one  bottle, 
then  a  second. 

"  Let's  be  off.  Let's  drive  somewhere;  there's 
nothing  else  to  do." 

They  drove  to  the  Hermitage,  which  had  only 
just  been  opened.  As  they  approached  the  thea- 
tre they  met  Anna.  Anna  did  not  know;  but 
even  If  she  had  known  he  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, she  would  not  have  altered  her  manner,  and 
would  have  smiled  and  shown  her  dimples  with 
even  more  delight. 

"  Oh,  there,  how  dull  you  are;  come  along!  " 
She  took  his  hand. 

♦"Lotukhine"   in  the  original, 
t "  Grisha  "  in  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER    301 

"  Take  care,"  said  Souschov  behind  them. 
"  Directly,  directly." 

Lutkovsky  *  walked  as  far  as  the  theatre  with 
her,  and  then  handed  her  over  to  Basil,  whom  he 
happened  to  meet  there. 

"  No,  It  Is  wrong.  I  will  go  home.  Why  did 
I  come?  " 

Notwithstanding  urgent  requests  to  remain,  he 
went  home.  In  his  hotel  room  he  drank  two 
glasses  of  seltzer  water,  and  sat  down  at  the  table 
to  make  up  his  accounts.  In  the  morning  he  had 
to  go  out  on  business  —  to  borrow  money.  His 
brother  had  refused  to  lend  him  any,  and  so  he 
had  got  It  from  a  money-lender.  He  sat  there 
making  his  calculations,  and  all  the  while  his 
thoughts  returned  to  Anna,  and  he  felt  annoyed 
that  he  had  refused  her,  though  he  felt  proud  that 
he  had  done  so. 

He  took  out  Marie's  f  photograph.  She  was 
a  strong,  well-developed,  slender  Russian  beauty. 
He  looked  at  the  picture  with  admiration,  then 
put  It  In  front  of  him  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

Suddenly  in  the  corridor  he  heard  the  voices  of 
Anna  and  Souschov.  He  was  leading  her 
straight  to  his  door. 

♦"Lotukhine"  in  the  original, 
t "  Barbara's  "  in  the  original. 


302    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

"  Alexis,*  how  could  you?  " 

She  entered  his  room. 

Next  morning  Lutkovsky  f  went  to  breakfast 
with  Souschov,  who  reproached  him. 

"  You  must  know  how  terribly  this  would  grieve 
her." 

**  Of  course  I  do.  Don't  worry.  I  am  as  dumb 
as  a  fish.  May  I  — ^  Alexis  |  has  returned  from 
Moscow,  the  same  clear,  child-like  soul.  I  see  he 
is  unhappy  because  he  is  not  rich,  for  my  sake  — 
only  for  my  sake.  Last  night  the  conversation 
turned  on  children,  on  our  future  children.  I  can- 
not believe  I  shall  have  children,  or  even  one 
child.  It  is  impossible.  I  shall  die  of  happi- 
ness. Oh,  but  if  I  had  them,  how  could  I  love 
them  and  him?  The  two  things  do  not  go  to- 
gether.    Well,  what  is  to  be  will  be." 

A  month  later  the  wedding  took  place.  In  the 
autumn  Lutkovsky  §  got  a  post  in  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice, and  they  went  to  St.  Petersburg.  In  Septem- 
ber they  discovered  that  she  was  going  to  be  a 
mother,  and  in  March  her  first  son  was  born. 

The  accouchement,  as  is  usually  the  case,  was 
unexpected,    and   confusion   ensued  just  because 

*  "  Grisha  "  in  the  original, 
t  "  Lotukhine  "  in  the  original. 
t  "  Grisha  "  in  the  original. 
§" Lotukhine"  in  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER    303 

every  one  had  wanted  to  foresee  everything,  and 
things  actually  turned  out  quite  different. 

[This  is  only  a  fragment,  and  contains  some  inconsistencies 
and  some  confusion  in  the  names,  which  have  been  corrected,-^ 
Editor.] 


FATHER  VASILY:  A  FRAGMENT 


FATHER  VASILY:  A  FRAGMENT 

It  was  autumn.  Before  daybreak  a  cart  rattled 
over  the  road,  which  was  in  bad  repair,  and  drove 
up  to  Father  Vasily's  double-fronted  thatched 
house.  A  peasant  in  a  cap,  with  the  collar  of  his 
kaftan  turned  up,  jumped  out  of  the  cart,  and, 
turning  his  horse  round,  knocked  with  his  big  whip 
at  the  window  of  the  room  which  he  knew  to  be 
that  of  the  priest's  cook. 

"Who's  there?" 

"  I  want  the  priest." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  some  one  who  is  sick." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  " 

"  From  Vozdrevo." 

A  man  struck  a  light,  and,  coming  out  into  the 
yard,  opened  the  gate  for  the  peasant. 

The  priest's  wife  —  a  short,  stout  woman, 
dressed  In  a  quilted  jacket,  with  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  felt  boots  on  her  feet  —  came  out  and 
began  to  speak  In  an  angry,  hoarse  voice. 

"  What  evil  spirit  has  brought  you  here?  " 

"  I  have  come  for  the  priest." 
307 


3o8  FATHER  VASILY 

"  What  are  you  servants  thinking  about?  You 
haven't  lit  the  fire  yet/' 

"  Is  It  time  yet?" 

"  If  It  were  not  time  I  shouldn't  say  anything." 

The  peasant  from  Vozdrevo  went  to  the 
kitchen,  crossed  himself  before  the  Ikon,  and,  mak- 
ing a  low  bow  to  the  priest's  wife,  sat  down  on  a 
bench  near  the  door. 

The  peasant's  wife  had  been  suffering  a  long 
time ;  and,  having  given  birth  to  a  still-born  child, 
was  now  at  the  point  of  death. 

While  gazing  at  what  was  going  on  in  the  hut 
he  sat  busily  thinking  how  he  should  carry  off  the 
priest.  Should  he  drive  him  across  the  Kossoe,  as 
he  had  come,  or  should  he  go  round  another  way? 
The  road  was  bad  near  the  village.  The  river 
was  frozen  over,  but  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear.     He  had  hardly  been  able  to  get  across. 

A  labourer  came  In  and  threw  down  an  armful 
of  birch  logs  near  the  stove,  asking  the  peasant  to 
break  up  some  of  it  to  light  the  fire,  whereupon 
the  peasant  took  off  his  coat  and  set  to  work. 

The  priest  awoke,  as  he  always  did,  full  of  life 
and  spirits.  While  still  In  bed,  he  crossed  himself 
and  said  his  favourite  prayer,  "  To  the  King  of 
Heaven,"  and  repeated  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  *' 
several  times.  Getting  up,  he  washed,  brushed 
his  long  hair,  put  on  his  boots  and  an  old  cassock, 


FATHER  VASILY  309 

and  then,  standing  before  the  ikons,  began  his 
morning  prayers.  When  he  reached  the  middle 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  had  come  to  the  words, 
"  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  them 
that  trespass  against  us,"  he  stopped,  remember- 
ing the  deacon  who  was  drunk  the  day  before, 
and  who  on  meeting  him  muttered  audibly,  "  Hyp- 
ocrite, Pharisee.'*  These  words,  Pharisee  and 
hypocrite,  pained  Father  Vasily  particularly  be- 
cause, although  conscious  of  having  many  faults, 
he  did  not  believe  hypocrisy  to  be  one  of  them. 
He  was  angry  with  the  deacon.  "  Yes,  I  for- 
give," he  said  to  himself;  "  God  be  with  him," 
and  he  continued  his  prayers.  The  words,  "  Lead 
us  not  into  temptation,"  reminded  him  how  he  had 
felt  when  hot  tea  with  rum  had  been  handed  to 
him  the  night  before  after  vespers  in  the  house  of 
a  rich  landowner. 

Having  said  his  prayers  he  glanced  at  himself 
in  a  little  mirror  which  distorted  everything,  and 
passed  his  hands  over  his  smooth,  fair  hair,  which 
grew  in  a  circle  round  a  moderately  large  bald 
patch,  and  then  he  looked  with  pleasure  at  his 
broad,  kind  face,  with  its  thin  beard,  which  looked 
young  in  spite  of  his  forty-two  years.  After  this 
he  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  he  found  his 
wife  hurriedly  and  with  difficulty  bringing  in  the 
samovar,  which  was  on  the  point  of  boiling  over. 


310  FATHER  VASILY 

"Why  do  you  do  that  yourself?  Whereas 
Thekla?" 

"  Why  do  you  do  it  yourself?  "  mocked  his 
wife.     "  Who  else  is  to  do  it?  '* 

"  But  why  so  early?  " 

"  A  man  from  Vozdrevo  has  come  to  fetch  you. 
His  wife  is  dying." 

"  Has  he  been  here  long?  " 

"  Yes,  some  time." 

**  Why  was  I  not  called  before?  '* 

Father  Vasily  drank  his  tea  without  milk  (it 
was  Friday)  ;  and  then,  taking  the  sacred  elements, 
put  on  his  fur  coat  and  cap  and  went  out  Into  the 
porch  with  a  resolute  air.  The  peasant  was 
awaiting  for  him  there.  "  Good-morning,  Mi- 
tri,"  said  Father  Vasily,  and  turning  up  his  sleeve, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  after  which  he 
stretched  out  his  small  strong  hand  with  its  short 
cut  nails  for  him  to  kiss,  and  walked  out  on  to  the 
steps.  The  sun  had  risen,  but  was  not  yet  visible 
behind  the  overhanging  clouds.  The  peasant 
brought  the  cart  out  from  the  yard,  and  drove 
up  to  the  front  door.  Father  Vasily  stepped 
quickly  on  the  axl.e  of  the  back  wheel  and  sat  down 
on  the  seat,  which  was  bound  round  with  hay. 
Mitri  getting  in  beside  him,  whipped  up  the  big- 
barrelled  mare  with  its  drooping  ears,  and  the 
cart  rattled  over  the  frozen  mud.  A  fine  snow 
was  falling. 


FATHER  VASILT  311 

II 

Father  VasUy's  family  consisted  of  his  wife, 
her  mother —  (the  widow  of  the  former  priest  of 
the  parish),  and  three  children  —  two  sons  and  a 
daughter.  The  eldest  son  had  finished  his  course 
at  the  seminary,  and  was  now  preparing  to  enter 
the  university;  the  second  son  —  the  mother's  fa- 
vourite, a  boy  of  fifteen  —  was  still  at  the  semi- 
nary, and  his  sixteen-year-old  daughter,  Lena,  lived 
at  home,  though  discontented  with  her  lot,  do- 
ing little  to  help  her  mother.  Father  Vasily  him- 
self had  studied  at  the  seminary  in  his  youth, 
and  had  done  so  brilliantly  that,  when  he  left  in 
1840,  he  was  at  the  top  of  his  class.  He  then 
began  to  prepare  for  entrance  into  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal academy,  and  even  dreamt  of  a  professor- 
ship, or  of  a  bishopric.  But  his  mother,  the 
widow  of  a  verger,  with  three  daughters  and  an 
elder  son  who  drank  —  lived  in  the  greatest  pov- 
erty. The  step  he  took  at  that  time  gave  a  sug- 
gestion of  self-sacrifice  and  renunciation  to  his 
whole  life.  To  please  his  mother  he  left  the 
academy,  and  became  a  village  priest.  He  did 
this  out  of  love  for  his  mother  though  he  never 
confessed  it  to  himself,  but  ascribed  his  decision 
to  indolence  and  dislike  for  intellectual  pursuits. 
The  place  to  which  he  was  presented  was  a  living 


312  FATHER  VASILY 

in  a  small  village,  and  was  offered  to  him  on  con- 
dition that  he  would  marry  the  former  priest's 
daughter.*  The  living  was  not  a  rich  one,  for 
the  old  priest  had  been  poor  and  had  left  a  widow 
and  two  daughters  in  distress.  Anna,  by  whose 
aid  he  was  to  obtain  the  living,  was  a  plain  girl, 
but  bright  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  She  liter- 
ally fascinated  Vasily  and  forced  him  to  marry 
her,  which  he  did.  So  he  became  Father  Vasily, 
first  wearing  his  hair  short  and  afterwards  long, 
and  he  lived  happily  with  his  wife,  Anna  Tik- 
honovna,  for  twenty-two  years.  Notwithstand- 
ing her  romantic  attachment  to  a  student,  the  son 
of  a  former  deacon,  he  was  as  kind  to  her  as  ever, 
as  if  he  loved  her  still  more  tenderly,  and  wished 
to  atone  for  the  angry  feelings  which  her  attach- 
ment to  the  student  had  awakened  in  him. 

It  had  afforded  him  an  opportunity  for  the  same 
self-sacrifice  and  self-denial;  the  result  of  which 
was  that  he  gave  up  the  academy,  and  felt  a  calm, 
almost  unconscious,  inner  joy. 

Ill 

At  first  the  two  men  drove  on  in  silence.  The 
road  through  the  village  was  so  uneven  that  al- 

*The  custom  of  giving  a  living  to  a  son-in-law  is  universal 
In  Russia.  The  living  is  usually  the  dowry  of  the  youngest 
daughter. 


FATHER  VASILY  313 

though  they  moved  slowly  the  cart  was  thrown 
from  side  to  side,  while  the  priest  kept  sliding  off 
his  seat,  settling  himself  again  and  wrapping  his 
cloak  round  him. 

It  was  only  after  they  had  left  the  village  be- 
hind, and  crossed  over  the  trench  into  the  meadow 
that  the  priest  spoke. 

"  Is  your  wife  very  bad?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  don't  expect  her  to  live,'*  answered  the 
peasant  reluctantly. 

"  It  is  in  God's,  not  man's  hands.  It  is  God's 
will,"  said  the  priest.  "  There  is  nothing  for  it 
but  to  submit." 

The  peasant  raised  his  head  and  glanced  at  the 
priest's  face.  Apparently  he  was  on  the  point  of 
making  an  angry  rejoinder,  but  the  kind  look 
which  met  his  eyes  disarmed  him  —  so  shaking 
his  head  he  only  said:  "  It  may  be  God's  will, 
but  it  is  very  hard  on  me.  Father.  I  am  alone. 
What  will  become  of  my  little  ones?  " 

"Don't  be  faint-hearted  —  God  will  protect 
them."  The  peasant  did  not  reply,  but  swearing 
at  the  mare,  who  had  changed  from  a  trot  into  a 
slow  walk,  he  pulled  the  rope  reins  sharply. 

They  entered  a  forest  where  the  tracks  were  all 
equally  bad,  and  drove  along  in  silence  for  some 
time,  trying  to  pick  out  the  best  of  them.  It  was 
only  after  they  had  passed  through  the  forest, 


314  FATHER  VASILY 

and  were  on  the  high  road  which  led  through 
fields  bright  with  springing  shoots  of  the  autumn- 
sown  corn,  that  the  priest  spoke  again. 

"  There  is  promise  of  a  good  crop,"  he  said. 

**  Not  bad,''  answered  the  peasant,  and  was 
silent.  All  further  attempts  at  conversation  on 
the  part  of  the  priest  were  in  vain. 

They  reached  the  patient's  house  about  break- 
fast-time. 

The  woman,  who  was  still  alive,  had  ceased 
to  suffer,  but  lay  on  her  bed  too  weak  to  move, 
her  expressive  eyes  alone  showing  that  life  was 
not  yet  extinct.  She  gazed  at  the  priest  with  a 
look  of  entreaty,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him 
alone.  An  old  woman  stood  near  her,  and  the 
children  were  up  on  the  stove.  The  eldest  girl, 
a  child  of  ten,  dressed  in  a  loose  shirt,  was  stand- 
ing, as  if  she  were  grown  up,  at  a  table  near  the 
bed,  and  resting  her  chin  on  her  right  hand,  and 
supporting  the  right  arm  with  her  left,  silently 
stared  at  her  mother.  The  priest  went  to  the  bed- 
side and  administered  the  sacrament,  and  turning 
towards  the  ikon,  began  to  pray.  The  old  woman 
drew  near  to  the  dying  woman,  and  looking  at 
her  shook  her  head  and  then  covered  her  face 
with  a  piece  of  linen;  after  which  she  approached 
the  priest,  and  put  a  coin  into  his  hand.     He  knew 


FATHER  VASILY  315 

It  was  a  five  kopek  *  piece,  and  accepted  It.  At 
that  moment  the  husband  came  into  the  hut. 

"  Is  she  dead?  "  he  asked. 

**  She  Is  dying,"  said  the  old  woman. 

On  hearing  this  the  girl  burst  into  tears,  mut- 
tering something.  The  three  children  on  the 
stove  began  to  howl  in  chorus. 

The  peasant  crossed  himself,  and  going  up  to 
his  wife,  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  at  her. 
The  white  face  was  calm  and  still.  He  stood 
over  the  dead  woman  for  a  few  minutes,  then  ten- 
derly covered  the  face  again,  and  crossing  himself 
several  times,  turned  to  the  priest  and  said, — » 

"Shall  we  start?" 

"  Yes,  we  had  better  go.'' 

"  All  right.  I'll  just  water  the  mare."  And 
he  left  the  hut. 

The  old  woman  began  a  wailing  chant  about  the 
orphans  left  motherless,  with  no  one  to  feed  or 
clothe  them,  comparing  them  to  young  birds  who 
have  fallen  from  their  nest.  At  every  verse  of 
her  chant  she  breathed  heavily,  and  was  more  and 
more  carried  away  by  her  own  wailing.  The 
priest  listened,  and  became  sad  and  sorry  for  the 
children  and  wanted  to  help  them.  He  felt  for 
his  purse  in  the  pocket  of  his  cassock,  remember- 
♦  About  three  half-pence. 


3i6  FATHER  VASTLY 

ing  that  he  had  a  half-rouble  (about  a  shilling) 
coin  In  It,  which  he  had  received  from  the  land- 
owner at  whose  house  he  had  said  vespers  the 
evening  before.  He  had  not  found  time  to  hand 
It  over  to  his  wife,  as  he  always  did  with  his 
money;  and,  regardless  of  the  consequences,  he 
took  out  the  coin,  and  showing  it  to  the  old 
woman,  put  It  on  the  wlndow-sIU. 

The  peasant  came  in  without  his  coat  on  and 
said  that  he  had  asked  a  friend  to  drive  the  priest 
back,  as  he  had  to  go  himself  to  fetch  some  boards 
for  the  coffin. 


IV 


Theodore,  the  friend  who  drove  Father  Vasily 
back,  was  a  sociable,  merry  giant  with  red  hair 
and  a  red  beard.  His  son  had  just  been  taken  as 
a  recruit,  and  to  celebrate  the  event,  Theodore 
had  had  a  drink,  and  was  therefore  in  a  particu- 
larly happy  frame  of  mind. 

"  Mltrl's  mare  was  tired  out,"  he  said;  "why 
not  help  a  friend?  Why  not  help  a  friend?  We 
ought  to  be  kind  to  one  another,  oughtn't  we? 
Now  then,  my  beauty !  "  he  shouted  to  the  bay 
horse  with  its  tightly  plaited  tail,  and  touched  it 
with  the  whip. 


FATHER  VASILY  317 

"  Gently,  gently,"  said  Father  Vasily,  shaken 
as  he  was  by  the  jolting. 

"  Well,  we  can  go  slower.     Is  she  dead?  " 

"  Yes,  she  Is  at  rest,"  said  the  priest. 

The  red-haired  man  wanted  to  express  his  sym- 
pathy, but  he  also  wanted  to  have  a  joke. 

"  God's  taken  one  wife,  He'll  send  another,"  he 
said,  wishing  to  have  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  it  is  terribly  sad  for  the  poor  fellow  1  " 
said  the  priest. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  He  is  poor  and  has  no  one 
to  help  him.  He  came  to  me  and  said,  *  Take  the 
priest  home,  will  you;  my  mare  can't  do  any 
more.'     We  must  help  one  another,  mustn't  we?  " 

"  You've  been  drinking,  I  see.  It's  wrong  of 
you,  Theodore.     It's  a  working-day." 

"  Do  you  think  I  drank  at  the  expense  of  oth- 
ers? I  drank  at  my  own.  I  was  seeing  my  son 
off.     Forgive  me,  Father,  for  God's  sake." 

"  It  is  not  my  business  to  forgive.  I  only  say 
it  is  better  not  to  drink." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  If  I 
were  just  nobody  —  but,  thank  God,  I  am  well  off. 
I  live  openly.  I  am  sorry  for  MItri.  Who  could 
help  being  sorry  for  him?  Why,  only  last  year 
some  one  stole  his  horse.  Oh,  you  have  to  keep 
a  sharp  eye  on  folk  nowadays." 

Theodore  began  a  long  story  about  some  horses 


3i8  FATHER  VASILY 

that  were  stolen  from  a  fair;  how  one  was  killed 
for  the  sake  of  its  skin  —  but  the  thief  was  caught 
and  was  beaten  black  and  blue,  said  Theodore, 
with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  They  ought  not  to  have  beaten  him.'* 

"  Do  you  think  they  ought  to  have  patted  him 
on  the  back?  " 

While  conversing  in  this  manner  they  reached 
Father  Vaslly*s  house. 

Father  Vasily  wanted  to  go  to  his  room  and 
rest,  but  during  his  absence  two  letters  had  come 
—  one  from  his  son,  one  from  the  bishop.  The 
bishop's  circular  was  of  no  Importance,  but  the 
son's  letter  gave  rise  to  a  stormy  scene,  which  in- 
creased when  his  wife  asked  him  for  the  half- 
rouble  and  found  that  he  had  given  it  away.  Her 
anger  grew,  but  the  real  cause  was  the  boy's  letter 
and  their  inability  to  satisfy  his  demands  —  due 
entirely  to  her  husband's  carelessness,  she  thought. 


THE  END 


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